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GIRL OR BOY 


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GIRL OR BOY 

A SATIRE AND A DIVERSION 

By JOHN NORTH 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 





Copyright, 1926 

By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

(Incorporated) 


•> i . 

O*) >, 


Printed in the United States of America 


THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 

THE BOSTON BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 



©Cl 


A901190 


JS I 


TO 


G. B. 

THIS STORY OF 
THE RISE AND FALL OF 

DAVID CRUMP 


NOTE: The characters in this story are fictitious. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTIR PACK 


I. 

The Boot 

9 

II. 

Mr. Crump’s Dark Hour 

17 

III. 

The Great Effulgence 

29 

IV. 

Place de L’Opera 

41 

V. 

Crump Resartus 

51 

VI. 

Mr. Marcus Faithful 

60 

VII. 

Fame 

75 

VIII. 

The Worm Turns 

86 

IX. 

Annette Fay 

103 

X. 

Savoy Mansions 

116 

XI. 

The Rape of Crump 

132 

XII. 

Mrs. Crump Intervenes 

147 

XIII. 

Before Dinner 

157 

XIV. 

Mrs. Meek’s Discovery 

173 

XV. 

Mrs. Crump Breaks the News 

187 

XVI. 

The Beginning of the Deluge 

201 

XVII. 

The Great Hysteria 

220 

XVIII. 

On the Eve 

240 

XIX. 

Resurrection Morning 

258 

XX. 

The Boot 

271 





















% 








CHAPTER I 
THE BOOT 

M R. DAVID CRUMP stood over his 
suit-case and regarded it meditatively. 
“ Hair-brushes, comb, tooth-brush, tooth¬ 
paste,” he chanted, and paused. 

“ Ah, my hair oil! Mustn’t forget my hair 
oil!” 

He darted into the bathroom and a moment 
later emerged with a greasy-looking bottle, 
which he wrapped up in the folds of a news¬ 
paper. He interred the bundle in the suit¬ 
case—somewhere within the soft, protective 
regions of his pyjama suit—and resumed his 
chant. 

“ Slippers, collars, socks; shaving-brush, 
shaving-soap, razor-strop, razor. Ah!” 

The razor still lay on the bed, which had 
lately served as a dumping ground for the 
contents of his bag. The razor was of the 
old cut-throat type, and Mr. Crump slowly 
withdrew it from its black cardboard case and 
fingered its edge. 

“ One never knows,” he murmured, address¬ 
ing his own reflection in the wardrobe mirror; 
and not for the first time in his life examined 
his features, as revealed in the glass, with 
considerable hostility. 

“ You’ve a rotten sort of face,” he growled. 
“Only a solution of ferro-concrete would 

9 


GIRL OR BOY 

master that head of hair: a shaggy-looking 
brute you are; and your chin’s black and your 
cheeks are blue and your eyes are like pim¬ 
ples; and your teeth, although they do hap¬ 
pen to be your own, are nothing to be proud 
of. A libel on the human species, that’s what 
you are!” 

Mr. Crump, having concluded this inven¬ 
tory of his charms, savagely adjusted his black 
tie, which invariably refused to make a sedate 
circuit of the white butterfly collar. This 
operation brought his fingers into some prom¬ 
inence in the mirror, and these too he re¬ 
garded with undiminished spleen. Mr. Crump, 
certainly, was only forty-something years of 
age—he refused to deal in units in this par¬ 
ticular computation — but several million 
cigarettes, consumed through several decades, 
must have gone to the formation of that deep 
coppery stain which now covered his fingers. 
He delivered himself of an oath, went out on 
to the landing, and leaned over the steep and 
narrow descent of the staircase. The ban¬ 
isters creaked beneath his weight. 

“Mildred!” he shouted; and when no 
answer was forthcoming, in more suppliant 
tones—“ Millie, my dear!” 

“ Yes, David?” 

The voice that came from the living-room 
downstairs was dangerously even; it was easy 
10 


THE BOOT 


to deduce from it where resided the controlling 
spirit of Mr. Crump’s suburban dwelling. 

“ Millie, I want you to get rid of this con¬ 
founded wardrobe of yours. I won’t have the 
thing in the bedroom any longer. It’s the 
curse-” 

Mr. Crump’s malediction faded away. The 
crisp odour of bacon began to sizzle round his 
nostrils; it acted like a charm. The man 
almost smiled. 

“But why, David? I must have somewhere 
to put my things, and I must be able to see 
myself.” 

“ Then I’ll lend you my shaving mirror,” 
said Mr. Crump. “ This wardrobe affair 
always gets in the way of my face.” 

And he laughed, foolishly, recklessly, and 
returned to the bedroom, confronted the mir¬ 
ror, and shook his fist at his own reflection. 
From his waistcoat pocket he took out a crum¬ 
pled piece of paper. “ Office Memorandum ” 
was printed on the top of it; underneath 
appeared the following message, in neat type¬ 
script: “ Mr. Crump will please report to Mr. 
Denning at 10.30 to-morrow morning, without 
fail.” 

“ Good enough,” murmured Mr. Crump. 
“ Marching orders!” He rolled the piece of 
paper into a microscopic ball and shied it 
through the window at the municipal lamp- 

11 



GIRL OR BOY 

post which nightly illumined his suburban 
retreat. He snapped down the lid of his suit¬ 
case, swept it off the ground, and made for 
the door. On the threshold he paused. The 
offending mirror still balefully reflected his 
features, and his figure also. No vestige of 
a crease remained in Mr. Crump’s short little 
trousers, and Mrs. Crump had long since re¬ 
linquished her youthful attempts to revive it. 

“ God speed!” remarked Mr. Crump, re¬ 
gaining something of his former facetiousness; 
and descended to the breakfast-table. 

“ You never told me that you were going 
away,” remarked his wife. She was already 
seated at the table. Not much of her frock 
was visible beneath her green apron, which 
was the epitome of her working existence. 
The Crump menage did not enjoy the services 
of a domestic, and Mrs. Crump’s life resolved 
itself into two endless duties: she had to keep 
the house clean and her husband well fed. 
Shopping was her only pastime; and at this 
she was an expert. Every tradesman in the 
Old Kent Road knew Mrs. Crump; and if 
he did not know her as a customer he knew 
of her by repute: the fact that Mrs. Crump 
did not choose to patronise his shop was in 
itself a reflection on the conduct of his busi¬ 
ness. Most mornings of the week Mrs. Crump 
was to be seen emerging stealthily from her 
12 


THE BOOT 


front door with a capacious string bag con¬ 
cealed about her person, ready for the fray. 
The true light of battle shone in her eyes when 
she caught her first glimpse of an L.C.C. tram- 
car ploughing its way through the swarming 
humanity along this road of her shopping 
dreams. Mr. Crump, of course, in the way 
of city conversation, never mentioned the Old 
Kent Road. One might have passed an eter¬ 
nity with Mr. Crump and never realised that 
his excellent physical constitution had been 
built up on chops and fish and bread and gro¬ 
ceries which had been frugally purchased in 
these noisome precincts. No, in the estima¬ 
tion of the world wherein he moved and had 
his being, Mr. Crump lived at Blackheath. 
When at night he returned home he never¬ 
theless took up his residence at Greenwich: 
though he might reasonably have claimed 
that he was at least half-way up the hill that 
led to the polite purlieus of the Heath. 

“ You never told me that you were going 
away,” repeated his wife. “ Didn’t I hear you 
packing your bag?” 

“ You’re quite right,” murmured Mr. 
Crump, separating with great finesse the rind 
from his bacon. “ I didn’t say anything about 
it last night because I didn’t want to worry 
you. Fact of the matter is, I’ve got to go 
abroad. Paris, my dear!” 


13 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ Paris!” 

The word hardly emerged from his wife’s 
lips; she seemed afraid to let it fall outright 
because it might break like a bubble in the 
air. It was the bombshell of her life. 

“ You are going to Paris alone? But why, 
David?” 

“ Business,” said Mr. Crump, determinedly 
munching his bread and bacon. “ I’ve got to 
see some newspaper men over there. Firm’s 
got an important new client, you see. I shall 
be all right. Don’t you worry.” 

His wife’s eyes were looking through the 
white-curtained window at the grey houses 
opposite her own; but she was trying to see 
far beyond them; trying to glimpse some 
picture-postcard memory of this fantastic city. 

“ Are you sure you’ll be all right, David?” 
she asked, with mournful emphasis. After all, 
her husband and her home were her only 
hobbies in life, and they were part and parcel 
of each other. For twenty years she had 
maintained undisputed control over both of 
them. Their holidays away from home had 
been but drops in this ocean of time; and 
never for a night had she lost sight of her 
husband, her dear, stodgy, stocky, little man! 
She trusted him, of course; it never occurred 
to her not to trust him. So far as she was 
able she had to realise in him her ideal of 
14 


THE BOOT 


motherhood; for no child of his had ever 
been born to her. And now this sudden flight. 
Her scheme of things went awry; a sense of 
loneliness overcame her. 

“ But why, David, have they selected you 
of all people?” 

Mr. Crump gave an hilarious laugh; one 
might have thought that this valiant man had 
suddenly achieved the summit of his earthly 
fortunes. 

“ 4 Millie, my dear,” he whispered, “ I’ve 
still another surprise for you. I’ve had a rise. 
Anything may happen. If this trip of mine 
comes out trumps I’m for it and you’re for it.” 

“ For what, David?” She refused to be 
swept off her feet; these ecstasies were dis¬ 
concerting. 

“ We’re for the Heath, my girl! I’ve got 
my eye on the house already. Stands in its 
own grounds, you know. And we’ll have a 
car, and a maid, and a theatre in town every 
week; and I shan’t care how much stuff you 
buy for the garden; and I’ll never see you in 
an apron again!” 

Mr. Crump paused; the light went out of 
his face; he stared at the lamp-post outside 
the window. 

“ My God!” he cried, “ I’ll do something 
or die!” And to hide his confusion bent 
over his wife and whispered in her ear, “ Yes, 

15 


GIRL OR BOY 

Millie, I’ll bring it off, or die!” and kissed 
her, and rushed out of the room. He saw a 
figure flit past the glass-panelled front door as 
he picked up his bag and rammed his hat on 
his head. 

“ I shall miss it this morning,” he shouted, 
not daring to put his head inside the room 
again. He knew instinctively that she was 
leaning over the table with her hands to her 
eyes. “ I’ll wire you my address as soon as I 
get there. Be back in a week. Don’t you 
worry. I shall be—all right.” 

But Mr. Crump was already on the other 
side of the iron railings which served to en¬ 
hance the humble ugliness of his obscure resi¬ 
dence. He rushed down the hill leading to the 
station with his coat-tails flapping in a wind 
which his own violence created. At the bot¬ 
tom of the hill he halted dead, and then slowly 
resumed his progress. There was no need for 
extreme punctuality this particular morning. 

At the station bookstall Mr. Crump laid 
down his penny for his customary morning 
paper. The boy who handed it to him had 
no time for the minute examination of his 
customers; but he could have sworn that a 
suspicion of a tear lingered in the right eye of 
the egregious Crump. 


16 


CHAPTER II 

MR. CRUMP’S DARK HOUR 

F OR nearly twenty years past Mr. Crump, 
in normal circumstances, had never arrived 
at Cannon Street Station later than 8.40 a.m. 
At that hour the appearance of the station was 
as familiar to him as his own face; he knew 
it like a book. Not less familiar were the 
faces of his fellow-travellers. A few of the 
men, usually in times of political crises or 
particularly bad weather, had ventured to get 
into conversation with him; but he did not 
encourage such intercourse. This journey to 
town occupied precisely eighteen minutes, and 
they were the most precious moments of his 
existence; they realised his ideal of earthly 
peace. For eighteen minutes he could sit with 
his paper and smoke his pipe in the sure con¬ 
viction that only a visitation from heaven or 
an accident on the line could disturb his 
serenity. The women who travelled on his 
train were a changeable crowd. Now and 
again a really pretty girl would put in a regu¬ 
lar appearance, and he would almost uncon¬ 
sciously develop a habit of keeping a look-out 
for her. It is unnecessary to state that Mr. 
Crump’s intentions were of the purest; in fact, 
he had no intentions whatsoever. Responsive 
to the daily wisdom of his desk calendar, he 
regarded all such phenomena as being gleams 

17 


GIRL OR BOY 


of sunshine across a leaden sky. Nor was sun¬ 
set ever unduly delayed. These pretty girls, 
Mr. Crump invariably had occasion to note, 
never preserved for long the regularity of their 
morning visits to town; and he not unnatur¬ 
ally assumed that they had succumbed to the 
temptations of the greatest of all human lot¬ 
teries. For this definition of marriage Mr. 
Crump was again indebted to his desk cal¬ 
endar, the proprietors of which, it will be 
observed, had curious notions of the sort of 
thing calculated to put a business man in a 
happy frame of mind in the early morning. 

But to-day Mr. Crump hardly recognised 
Cannon Street for the same station. He 
arrived an hour later than usual, and when he 
stepped down on to the platform he walked in 
a different world. The great flux of woman¬ 
kind had ceased; it was a world of staid and 
prosperous business men, leisurely and ele¬ 
gantly proceeding to their polite avocations; 
the gaunt commercial spectre seemed sud¬ 
denly to have disappeared from the face of 
the earth. No anxious, scurrying multitudes 
of wage-earners thronged the ticket-barriers, 
and Mr. Crump was able to present his third- 
class season with a nonchalance which was in 
itself an exquisite experience. 

“ Lord,” murmured Mr. Crump, “ I wish 
I could come up on this train every morning, 
18 


MR. CRUMP’S DARK HOUR 


Luxury, that’s what it is. I could put up 
with a great deal if-” 

He broke off, and seemed to shrivel up, 
body and soul. 

“ I was forgetting,” he murmured as he 
looked up at the great face of the station clock, 
reluctant to resign the strange fascination of 
the hour. His black hair was long and untidy 
at the back of his neck and formed a fringe 
round the white butterfly collar; the coat he 
was carrying over his arm trailed on the 
ground; and with his other hand he uncomfort¬ 
ably grasped his bag, his gloves, and his crum¬ 
pled morning paper. A pathetic little man, 
this Mr. Crump, even in a workaday world. 

“ I was forgetting,” he murmured a second 
time, still watching the minute-hand of the 
clock climb jerkily towards the hour. 
“ There’ll be no train to catch to-morrow.” 

He left the station with a brisk step, after 
depositing his bag in the cloak-room. A few 
minutes later he boarded an omnibus bound 
for Fleet Street. He found a seat on the top, 
from which eminence he surveyed the hurry¬ 
ing mortals on the pavements beneath him. 

“ Midgets, all of you,” growled Mr. Crump. 
“Poor mites on the face of the earth! I was 
one of you yesterday; but to-day I’m inde¬ 
pendent! At no one’s beck and call!” and 
hugged himself at the thought of his week’s 

19 



GIRL OR BOY 

freedom, and tried hard to recollect the sum 
total of his liquid assets. The ’bus skirted 
St. Paul’s, and his eyes roamed its massive 
lines and contours with the air of the con¬ 
noisseur; for the first time in his life, perhaps, 
Mr. Crump really looked at St. Paul’s and 
appreciated something of its magnificence. 

“ Put that old fool Denning up against 
that” murmured Mr. Crump to himself, “ and 
what is he? Nothing, nothing at all; less 
than a worm! Let him give me the sack! ” 

But the long pause in the traffic block at 
Ludgate Hill gave Mr. Crump an unwelcome 
opportunity for much sober reflection. What 
would the glory of St. Paul’s avail him when 
the rates and the rent fell due? The sight of 
the noble edifice might be excellent for the 
soul; but it would neither feed nor clothe him, 
nor provide his wife’s weekly housekeeping 
money. That monthly cheque had been regu¬ 
larly forthcoming for so many years that he 
found it difficult to realise that it would forth¬ 
with cease; and Mr. Crump’s new-born 
courage withered at the thought. One must 
have money to live: a fact the significance of 
which, however obvious, he had never before 
grasped. By the time he reached the offices 
of the Morning Star his spirits were below 
zero. He was afraid to look anyone in the 
face; the commissionaire, always something 
20 


MR. CRUMP’S DARK HOUR 

of a personage, now carried a flaming sword 
in Mr. Crump’s febrile imagination. Mr. 
Crump was an outcast, an intruder. 

“ Late of the Morning Star,” thought Mr. 
Crump as he stepped into the lift and again 
came face to face with his own reflection. 
“ And a back number,” he added with a scowl, 
which was faithfully recorded in the mirror. 
“ Curse you!” was Mr. Crump’s final saluta¬ 
tion as he walked out into the corridor on the 
third floor. From sheer force of habit he 
turned towards his own room and only halted 
on its threshold. He had resolved never to 
enter it again. The night before he had 
cleared out his personal belongings and left 
what papers concerned him for filing: if he 
had to go he preferred to go quickly; he was 
prepared to state at the coming interview that 
he was ready to walk out of the building 
without further ado; the briefer his leave- 
taking the less painful it would be. And yet 
he could hardly resist peeping inside the door; 
he remembered the room so well. It was little 
more than a cubby hole; nevertheless it had 
belonged to him for several years past, 
although he had never really mastered the 
silent ignition of the antiquated gas fire. Even 
the unfading ink-stains on the deal table were 
clearly mapped out in his mind; and, of 
course, there was his desk calendar. Actually 

21 


GIRL OR BOY 

it was his own property, but he had not had 
the heart to bring it away with him. Day after 
day, year in and year out, he had turned over 
a leaf at the end of his day’s work, entered up 
the morrow’s work, and memorised the quota¬ 
tion printed beneath the date. Last night he 
had carefully refrained from performing this 
piece of ritual; for once in a way he had de¬ 
vised his own motto for the day—“ No work, 
no quotation”—but he found it singularly un¬ 
satisfying. His consuming curiosity overcame 
him; he had to look, for the very last time, at 
that unfailing friend and counsellor. Mr. 
Crump groaned in spirit, and opened the door. 

It was still there, snugly adjacent to his 
hieroglyphic sheet of red blotting-paper. He 
pounced on it, saw the diagonal line he had 
drawn across the previous day’s entries—the 
line he had drawn solemnly, thoughtfully— 
and turned over the page, and read out aloud: 

“Bold knaves thrive, without one grain of sense, 

But good men starve for want of impudence." 

“ That’s as true as I’m a good man,” com¬ 
mented Mr. Crump, and recited the lines a 
second time. He did not hear a knock at the 
door. 

“ Mr. Denning’s waiting for you, sir,” 
announced the messenger-boy, and Mr. 
Crump straightway turned on his heel, 

22 


MR. CRUMP’S DARK HOUR 


viciously slammed the door, and followed the 
boy down the corridor. 

“ Bold knaves thrive,” he muttered as he 
went along; “ bold knaves thrive. I ought 
to have known as much. I’ve only to look 
round this place!” 

But it was an entirely subdued Mr. Crump 
who, a moment later, confronted the resplen¬ 
dent Denning. Mr. Reginald Denning was 
the advertisement director of the Morning 
Star; his was the directing genius which 
secured for the Morning Star an advertise¬ 
ment revenue which ran into seven figures per 
annum. He affected a bow which any im¬ 
pecunious tragedian would have thankfully ac¬ 
cepted ; the wide black ribbon which dangled 
from his eyeglasses made an elegant plaything 
for his immaculate hands; his morning coat 
and vest were of an impeccable distinction; 
and doubtless as much might have been said 
for his trousers, which, for the moment, were 
screened from view by an enormous expanse 
of plate glass and mahogany. Any visitor 
would have assumed that the handsome ma¬ 
hogany table had no other purpose in life but 
to carry this expanse of glass. Not even the 
monumental inkstand and the luxurious blot¬ 
ting-pad could secure the admiration they 
merited in this glittering wilderness of space. 
But it must not be assumed that Mr. Reginald 

23 


GIRL OR BOY 

Denning was merely a figure-head in the 
tentacular advertisement-extracting organisa¬ 
tion which he controlled. He did not work on 
paper; he hated the sight of paper; he had 
no use for the written word; this clumsy 
means of approach he left to second-rate 
brethren. Mr. Reginald Denning passed his 
business life talking and telephoning. He 
talked over lunch, and conducted conversa¬ 
tions over the telephone during the brief pas¬ 
sages of time which preceded and followed it. 
He would have scorned to work seven hours a 
day: three more than sufficed a man of his 
calibre. His battery of telephones were put 
out of action at three-thirty prompt, by which 
time his cohort of canvassers were in receipt 
of their instructions for the next day’s work, 
the success of which he had already assured. 
Such was the potentate who shot an almost 
affectionate glance at the little man who stood 
hesitant at the door. 

“ Come and sit down, Crump,” he said 
melodiously. 

For one mad moment Mr. Crump almost 
believed that he might have misread the signs 
and portents he had observed throughout the 
past year: this benevolent personality could 
never assume the role of executioner; but the 
hope died with the thought, and Denning’s 
next remark buried it, 

24 


MR. CRUMP’S DARK HOUR 


“ I’m sorry, old man.” 

Mr. Crump put his hand to his throat and 
wrenched at his collar; he wanted air; the 
blow had laid him low. He knew perfectly well 
that no man whose banking account did not 
run into thousands of pounds could ever hope 
to be addressed as “ old man ” by his opulent 
chief. He, Crump, had already become a 
creature of such insignificance in the general 
scheme of things that Denning had not 
troubled to observe one of the cardinal rules 
of his life: one’s terminology is of little conse¬ 
quence in discourse with the dead. Denning 
removed his eyeglasses and dangled them in 
front of his nose. 

“ Yes, I’m sorry, Crump,” he went on, 
“ that we shan’t see you about here much 
longer-” 

“ Not after this morning,” interposed Mr. 
Crump with a grimness of expression which 
surprised himself. Denning hastily resumed 
his eyeglasses, and then imperturbably con¬ 
tinued his observations. 

“ You have to understand that the world is 
changing every day and that some of us ”— 
he looked vaguely round the room—“ find it 
difficult to keep up with the times. For 
instance, appearance counts for so much in 
these progressive days; and frankly, Mr. 
Crump, I think you have been a little lax 

25 



GIRL OR BOY 

in your observation of this self-evident fact.” 

By a severe exercise of his power of self- 
control Denning contrived to keep his eyes off 
Mr. Crump’s collar and tie. For years past 
that collar and tie—though Crump never 
knew it—had haunted the great Denning; it 
was the one blot on the perfection of his or¬ 
ganisation that had baffled him. Those occa¬ 
sions when he had chanced to travel in the lift 
with Mr. Crump had been moments of exqui¬ 
site agony. There was nothing intrinsically 
wrong with the collar, nor the tie; but in 
conjunction, on Mr. Crump’s short thick neck, 
they were devastatingly sloven and the out¬ 
ward and visible sign of the man’s incompe¬ 
tence. Denning heard himself speaking. 

“ The representatives of a great organ of 
public opinion, such as we all know the Morn¬ 
ing Star to be, must of necessity regard them¬ 
selves as ambassadors of the paper, and carry 
in themselves something of the prestige and 
the dignity-” 

“I prefer to leave at once” interrupted Mr. 
Crump, and got up, secretly gratified that he 
dared to rise to this height of irreverence. 
Denning rose also, and walked to the other 
side of the table. There was a pathos in the 
contrast the two men presented, and neither, 
perhaps, was altogether unconscious of it. For 
the first time in their lives they looked at each 
26 



MR. CRUMP’S DARK HOUR 


other, as man to man. In Mr. Crump’s tiny 
eyes there gleamed a new defiance; he stood 
his ground until Denning, almost abashed, 
turned away. To a man who thrived on success 
this pitiful spectacle of failure was disconcert¬ 
ing; and Denning always hated to be reminded 
that only a stroke of luck had enabled him to 
get out of the rut. But he had no compunc¬ 
tion concerning Crump. Besides, where was 
the man’s wife? For instance, those absurdly 
short little trousers. Need they be so baggy 
at the knees? He looked down at his own, 
beautifully creased and rolling perfectly over 
his patent shoes, and sighed. 

“ Very well,” he said. “ I am prepared to 
give way to your wishes in the matter. You 
will be glad to know that the Directors have 
already decided to mark their appreciation of 
your past services in a highly generous fashion. 
If you care to wait in my secretary’s room I 
can perhaps arrange the matter before you 
leave the building.” He held out his hand. 
“ Good-bye—and good luck to you. I don’t 
expect we shall meet again.” 

“ No, sir. Thank you.” 

Mr. Crump had spent his last ounce of 
courage; he had crumpled up with that shak¬ 
ing of hands; when Denning released his grip 
he felt that he had been left to drown. . . . 
Somehow or other he managed to get into the 

27 


GIRL OR BOY 


street again. He walked into the first tea- 
shop he saw, and ordered a cup of tea. He 
felt better after it, and took out of his pocket 
the envelope which had been handed to him 
by Denning’s secretary. It contained a cheque 
for two hundred and fifty pounds. 


28 


CHAPTER III 

THE GREAT EFFULGENCE 

M R. CRUMP spent the rest of the morn¬ 
ing tramping the streets of London. 
It was his first experience of that feeling of 
independence which, earlier on in the morn¬ 
ing, he had contemplated with a considerable 
amount of self-satisfaction. The people with 
whom he mingled on the pavements all had 
jobs to do, errands to perform; his only occu¬ 
pation was that of wasting time, the most dif¬ 
ficult of all occupations. He was poignantly 
reminded of one of the quotations in his desk 
calendar: something to the effect that time 
hangs heavy on the sluggard’s hands . . . which 
recollection served to fortify his faith in that 
diverse compilation. Certainly the cheque for 
two hundred and fifty pounds which he car¬ 
ried in his breast pocket was something to be 
grateful for: the firm had come down rather 
handsomely, and every few hundred yards his 
hand went up to his pocket-book; but there 
was in that touch no healing for the misery he 
bore in his soul. In the tea-shop where he 
consumed two sausages and mashed potatoes 
he watched despondently, and enviously, the 
men and the girls who hurried through their 
lunches with one eye on the clock. He would 
thankfully have resigned his cheque for the 
privilege of being due at the office at two 

29 


GIRL OR BOY 

o’clock. He wished to heaven he had gone to 
a first-rate restaurant for lunch, where a 
change of atmosphere might have helped him 
to fight against that feeling of depression 
which was slowly driving him to thoughts of 
suicide. He was trying to recollect another 
quotation which had in it something about 
gilded halls of splendour, when the voice of 
his waitress interrupted his meditations. 

“ Did you have any veg.?” she asked, with 
a lick at her pencil. 

“ No,” groaned Mr. Crump. “ I had sau¬ 
sages and mashed potatoes, and a pastry.” 

“ Sausages and mash,” interpreted the girl, 
“ and a gahto.” 

Mr. Crump examined his bill. It totalled 
one shilling and sixpence ha’penny. He 
looked up and found his features reflected in 
what was left of a mirror after a firm of beef- 
cube manufacturers had finished scrawling 
over it the name of their product. 

“ You’re a still bigger fool this morning,” 
growled Mr. Crump reflectively. “ You’ve 
a cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds in 
your pocket, and you put up with this sort of 
thing. Bah!” 

It is impossible to state whether this out¬ 
burst merely relieved Mr. Crump’s feelings or 
whether indeed it brought enlightenment. 
Certainly he took up his station in the queue 
30 


THE GREAT EFFULGENCE 


at the cash desk with an air of resolution which 
served to indicate that some new purpose had 
come into his life. His next half-hour was 
crowded with incident. He hailed a taxi-cab 
with less consideration than he had sometimes 
given in the matter of a penny ’bus ride; he 
called at his bank, where he paid in his cheque, 
drew out twenty pounds, and made certain 
inquiries regarding his War Saving Certifi¬ 
cates. He emerged into the street with such a 
jaunty air that the waiting taxi-driver was 
emboldened to ask him whether he had had a 
good day. This piece of familiarity annoyed 
Mr. Crump; but within the dim seclusion of 
the cab he tugged at his collar and ran his 
fingers down a purely imaginary crease in his 
trousers, and sighed philosophically. 

“ What else could you expect, in these?” 
he sniffed. Some minutes later, when he 
descended the steps of Cannon Street Station 
with a porter at his heels, he noted with con¬ 
siderable satisfaction the taxi-driver’s uncon¬ 
cealed surprise. Not many men would have 
disdained to carry a suit-case of such small 
dimensions. 

“ Take me,” grimly directed Mr. Crump, 
“ take me to the best hotel outside Victoria 
Station. Quick about it, please.” 

Again within the luxurious privacy of the 
cab Mr. Crump took communion with his soul. 

31 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ You’re getting on,” he murmured. “ But 
—quo vadis?” And immediately fell to 
wondering whether or no he had got this 
quite right. For once in a way he had strayed 
beyond the self-prescribed limits of his desk 
calendar. 

At the hotel he wisely resigned his body to 
the care and the direction of the staff; not 
until he found himself alone in the room 
allotted to him did he reassume a corporeal 
existence. He sat on the edge of the bed and 
looked around him. 

“ Wonderful,” he murmured. “ Living is 
a simple matter for some folk. No mess and 
no bother. Nothing to do except be done 
by. Place a penny in the slot and the figure 
works. I wonder,” he added reflectively, but 
without visible apprehension, “ how much this 
will cost me? Twenty-five bob a night, I 
dare say. Tis a mad world, my masters.” 

He walked over to the wardrobe and criti¬ 
cally examined his face in the mirror. 

“ Your face may be an unfortunate mistake 
on the part of Nature,” he grunted, “ but even 
at this late hour a wash and brush-up might 
prove of some assistance.” 

He examined a series of bell pushes, vari¬ 
ously inscribed, beside the bed. 

“Femme de chambre ,” he remarked, “ought 
to do the trick”; and straightway began to 
32 


THE GREAT EFFULGENCE 


practise saying, “ Some hot water, please,” 
with the requisite degree of hauteur. 

The hot water arrived in due course, but 
remained untouched on the washstand, where 
it passed into a chilly decline. On the couch 
by the window lay a little man, fast asleep. 
His legs were curled up and his chin was buried 
deep in the abyss of his white butterfly collar; 
his head, in turn, was buried deep in the 
cushion to whose ample embrace Mr. Crump’s 
unresting spirit had wearily succumbed and 
so given the body an hour’s repose. 

That evening Mr. Crump dined in Soho. 
For company he had a pile of illustrated 
papers. He paid little or no attention to the 
food that was placed in front of him. To all 
appearance he was dining on the papers; and 
he would certainly have dined off them but for 
the watchful ministrations of his waiter. Only 
the advertisements interested Mr. Crump. 
He knew them all; he had assisted at the birth 
of many of them—of those which had already 
appeared in the Morning Star. But this was 
quite another Mr. Crump. This Mr. Crump 
had suddenly become a keen student of adver¬ 
tising. In brief, Mr. Crump was in search 
of an idea, or a commodity, which he could 
exploit. 

At a quarter to eight he emerged from the 

33 


GIRL OR BOY 


restaurant. He was satisfied with the result 
of his investigations; he had narrowed down 
his search considerably; and was proud to 
realise that he had a keen analytical turn of 
mind, which had so far languished because 
he had never previously been called upon to 
exercise it. “ The hour brings out the man.” 
Mr. Crump, in the obscurity of a dark byway 
leading into the Charing Cross Road, blushed, 
whatever his satisfaction to record this further 
vindication of the trust he had hitherto dis¬ 
played in the wisdom of his desk calendar. 
And when Mr. Crump halted dead in the mid¬ 
dle of the pavement; he was astonished at 
himself; he found himself regarding that fount 
of wisdom as something that belonged to a 
remote past and to a stage in his career from 
which he had already advanced. 

“Curious,” he murmured. “ I don’t know 
what’s coming over me. I’m different some¬ 
how. I feel different—sort of ” 

Mr. Crump gave it up. As yet he did but 
dimly perceive that he was to be the un¬ 
crowned head of that kingdom in which, for 
years past, he had played the part of a com¬ 
mon soldier. 

He turned into Charing Cross Road, and 
then down into Shaftesbury Avenue. He re¬ 
viewed in his mind the array of advertisements 
he had examined that evening. He looked 
34 



THE GREAT EFFULGENCE 


up at the scintillating electric signs; they 
winked at him, gaily, knowingly. 

“ Whisky’s no good to me,” he growled. 
“ What I want is the women and the mothers 
and the children and the babies: something 
a woman can put on herself or inside her baby. 
O Lord,” he groaned, “ where can I find a 
Commodity? Something that will let me 
show a mother kissing her baby, holding the 
pink little dumpling in her pink peignoir , or 
bending over the darling’s little cot, or watch¬ 
ing the treasure romp in the garden . . . any¬ 
thing so long as it’s something which can be 
rammed down her own throat, or the kid’s 
throat, or father’s throat. No!” Mr. Crump 
paused. “ No, father’s too difficult to put 
across. Let’s stick to mother and the kids; 
and let it be a food if you can’t think of some¬ 
thing better, you!” 

Mr. Crump paused in front of a milliner’s 
shop window; he had caught sight of himself 
in the mirror behind the display of hats, and 
blenched. 

“ You lean and hungry-looking demon,” he 
growled. But in this Mr. Crump was unfair 
to himself. The faces that flitted across the 
mirror, sometimes extinguishing his own, be¬ 
longed to the common run of mortals; in his 
own fiery eye-balls there burned the light of 
genius, the light of creation. Mr. Crump did 

35 


GIRL OR BOY 

not know that he was on the verge of the most 
sublime moment of his life, when the blank 
in his despairing mind would be filled with 
a great effulgence which, in a flash, would 
reveal to him the rising edifice of his earthly 
fortunes. He turned from the window and 
drifted through the crowd towards Piccadilly 
Circus. 

“ Keep cool and think clearly,” he adjured 
himself. “ O God, must it be a food?” he 
groaned. “ Is there nothing more in the 
world to advertise? Must stick to women and 
babies: can’t go wrong if you do.” 

He came to a halt on the verge of the pave¬ 
ment at the end of Shaftesbury Avenue. Mr. 
Crump was a Londoner, but the spectacle pre¬ 
sented by Piccadilly Circus at night still had 
power to dazzle him. During the past decade 
he had rarely encountered it; every normal 
evening—and an abnormal evening was some¬ 
thing altogether outside Mr. Crump’s experi¬ 
ence—he had caught the five fifty-five from 
Cannon Street Station, with no thought for 
the gay lights which set up a glow in the west¬ 
ern sky. His very occasional trips to town 
with Millie had invariably occupied his Satur¬ 
day afternoons; he hardly knew what it was to 
miss his evening meal at home. He scurried 
across the Circus and moored himself to the 
centre island. Still the sky signs winked at 
36 


THE GREAT EFFULGENCE 


him gaily, knowingly; their letters of fire con¬ 
sumed him; his soul was sick with envy. 

“ If only I had something to sell; if only I 
could get up there. . . .” He broke off and 
made a gesture of impatience. “ Hold fast 
to women and babies,” he added severely. 
“ One thing at a time. Find your commodity 
first.” 

He brought his eyes to a lower level. He 
noted with satisfaction that the world seemed 
to be full of women: many of them lovely; all 
of them wanting to be lovelier: some of them 
married; all of them wanting to be married: 
some with babies; all of them wanting babies. 
Women fat, women thin; women virtuous, 
women vile; women, happy and unhappy; 
women, women, women, all the way. Mr. 
Crump’s brain throbbed at the sight of them 
and at the thought of them. 

“ What,” he asked heaven, “ do these crea¬ 
tures want? What can I persuade them to 
think they want? What can I make them 
buy?” But no answer was forthcoming from 
the starry spaces; and the circle of lights 
above and around him began to wink at him 
maliciously, scornfully. 

“ There must be something else they want 
and haven’t got,” he moaned, trying hard to 
retain that analytical frame of mind on which 
he had so recently prided himself. He scanned 

37 


GIRL OR BOY 

the faces of the women who thronged past 
him, but found in none of them the inspiration 
he sought. Some of the girls with painted 
lips paused to return his glance: only paused, 
he noted, and then passed him by; but he was 
not offended. 

“ Scum of the earth,” he growled. “ I’m 
no catch, am I? You wait, hussies!” Sud¬ 
denly his face went taut; his lips parted; an 
imbecile stare crept into his eyes. 

“ God in heaven!” he gasped. “ Got it, 
I’ve got it!” 

The idea had come; the vision had been 
vouchsafed; the world was in flower; and Mr. 
Crump’s set features relaxed into a child-like 
smile. Poised on this, the exquisite moment 
of his life, Mr. Crump, looking neither to 
the right of him nor to the left of him, 
stepped into the road clean in front of a 
motor-car. A wing caught him somewhere in 
the small of the back and sent him spinning 
across the road, where he subsided into the 
gutter. 

“Poor little man! I do hope he’s not 
hurt.” 

Mr. Crump, returning to a state of con¬ 
sciousness which had only momentarily de¬ 
serted him, heard the voice, and thought it the 
most melodious music that ever fell from mor¬ 
tal lips; he almost swooned a second time. 
38 


THE GREAT EFFULGENCE 

“ Look, he’s going to open his eyes. Oh, 
I’m so glad!” 

Mr. Crump opened his eyes and looked up 
into the face that bent over him. Never 
before had he found himself so near to beauty 
in women; never before had so intoxicating 
a fragrance lingered in his nostrils, a fragrance 
of body, clothes, and perfume; a new world 
of desire slipped into his ken; and the pain 
of the revelation was now so keen that he 
could have cried. She touched his arm. 

“ I think he will be able to stand,” she said 
to the man at her side. 

But Mr. Crump was already on his feet. 
Her touch had scorched him; he could not 
bear it. He was no longer a mere bundle of 
bones and flesh, but a man, instinct with 
multitudinous yearnings; he suddenly wanted 
her to grip his arm with all the desire that was 
in her woman’s soul. His dazed eyes turned 
from her; he knew that he looked rather stupid 
as he stood there in the centre of a gaping 
crowd. “ Poor little man,” she had breathed, 
almost in his ear. He tugged savagely at his 
collar. She watched him still with curious eyes, 
clutching her flaming cloak around her throat. 

“ I’m very sorry,” said the man at her side; 
“ but when you stepped into the road you 
couldn’t have been looking where you were 
going.” 


39 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ No,” admitted Mr. Crump, in a very weak 
voice. He paused, and in that pause took on 
a new lease of life. 

“ You see,” he went on brightly, “ I’d just 
had an idea!” 

And fled. 


40 


CHAPTER IV 

PLACE DE UOPERA 

T WO days later Mr. Crump arrived in 
Paris. When he stepped down on to the 
main arrival platform at the Gare du Nord no 
external change had taken place in his appear¬ 
ance. He was still carrying his suit-case and 
his overcoat; it had not occurred to him to put 
on a clean collar since leaving home; and his 
trousers were, if anything, shorter than ever: 
possibly the keen sea air had caused them to 
shrink a little. Nevertheless, Mr. Crump 
comported himself with an unusual assurance, 
partly to be explained, no doubt, by the fact 
that he carried in his pocket-book English 
notes to the value of five hundred odd pounds 
and fifty pounds’ worth of francs. This sum 
of money comprised Mr. Crump’s total capital 
resources. His one other valuable possession 
was a book of railway, sea and hotel tickets, 
supplied by a tourist agency in London. Mr. 
Crump had firmly attached himself to this lit¬ 
tle book, and the little book, with a more than 
human intelligence, had guided him safely 
across land and sea, and was finally to secure 
him safe anchorage in a discreet hotel. When¬ 
ever during the journey any person in uniform 
had so much as looked at him Mr. Crump had 
instantly proffered his little book, and it had 
never failed to act like a charm. 

41 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ If this,” murmured Mr. Crump, “ is 
foreign travel, I don’t see why people should 
make such a fuss about it.” On the other 
side of the ticket barrier, however, Mr. Crump 
felt rather less certain of himself. He was 
assailed on all sides by uniformed hooligans 
who made desperate efforts to secure his suit¬ 
case and his overcoat. When they found that 
his grip on them was too firm to be shaken 
they attempted to transport him bodily in the 
direction of the street; but before they 
reached the cab-rank Mr. Crump’s manner 
became so obviously violent that these too- 
obliging porters released him and sought other 
prey. Mr. Crump sat down to collect his 
thoughts. He felt very homesick. The Gare 
du Nord was a dank and chilly place and the 
people who thronged it were alien to him; it 
was like being in babeldom: he could neither 
understand nor, were he to speak, be under¬ 
stood. It was this last fact which most keenly 
distressed him; it made him feel unsafe; and 
Cannon Street Station, seen through the mist 
that veiled his sight, became a veritable haven 
of rest, comfort and security. Mr. Crump gave 
a tiny shudder. This was worse than the 
Channel crossing; and he simply could not 
collect his thoughts in this pandemonium. 

“I wish,” he murmured plaintively, “I’d been 
catching my old five fifty-five this evening.” 
4 2 


PLACE DE L’OPERA 


At the end of a quarter of an hour he got up 
and walked towards what appeared to be the 
station cloak-room. He knew quite well that 
he ought to have gone boldly into the street 
and got into a taxi and been driven to his 
hotel; but he could not screw up his courage 
to this point: he would explore the city first, 
on foot, once his suit-case was in safe custody. 
The little book most unfortunately did not 
provide the appropriate ticket for its deposi¬ 
tion ; but he managed to get rid of it by fol¬ 
lowing the example set by other travellers, 
and turned to face the world of Paris. 

The spectacle presented to his astonished 
gaze outside the station took his breath away, 
and Mr. Crump had to admit to himself that 
he felt shaky at the knees. He was afraid to 
take the plunge into this living maelstrom of 
traffic. When he did step off the pavement he 
was back again in the twinkling of an eye, 
crushed in spirit and very nearly in body by 
the objurgations cast upon him by an irate 
taxi-driver whose cab appeared to have sprung 
out of the bowels of the earth. 

“ Thank God,” muttered Mr. Crump, 
“ Millie’s not here to see me. She’d have a 
fit. And to think that I’ve lived in London 
all my life!” 

He lit a cigarette, and found it good. 

“ How this city smells! ” he commented with 

43 


GIRL OR BOY 

a fine contempt. “ Stinking tobacco, stale cof¬ 
fee, and garbage: no wonder I feel ill. Give 
me the clean smells of old London and a whiff 
of petrol from one of her red buses!” 

This poetical exordium instilled new confi¬ 
dence and hope into Mr. Crump’s expanding 
breast, and he plunged boldly into the main 
stream of traffic. Consciously he had put on 
courage and resolution; but he did not know 
that this moment definitely marked the begin¬ 
ning of his great adventure. 

He drifted along the Rue Lafayette towards 
the Place de l’Opera; he was content to follow 
the crowd. Before long he had captured 
something of its contagion of spirit; he felt 
that he was one of a happy band of pilgrims, 
and forgot to feel lonely. There was nothing 
to worry about for the present, anyway. A 
man with five hundred and fifty pounds in his 
pocket was not at the mercy of the world; he 
could buy food, shelter, services, even in a 
strange land. So Mr. Crump reflected, and 
quickened his pace. The Place de l’Opera 
disconcerted him; its brilliant disarray be¬ 
wildered him; and in the middle of it he 
completely lost his head. He thought wildly: 

“ Oh, my God, I’m going to be run over 
again!” 

He put one hand to the small of his back, 
which was still pretty sore, and prayed that 
44 


PLACE DE V OP ERA 


the earth might open and swallow him up, if 
only a minute’s peace might ensue. It seemed 
to him that he occupied the central point of a 
criss-cross system of taxi-cab routes, and that 
he might have been an empty paper bag for all 
the notice he attracted from the murderous- 
looking brigands who drove as if all the devils 
in hell were clinging to the rear of their cabs. 
Occasionally he caught a glimpse of the Cafe 
de la Paix and of the crowd drinking outside 
it; and every light in the cafe became a lode¬ 
star and the pavement itself a shore of refuge, 
immeasurably distant, poignantly desirable. 
He had half a mind to sit down on that portion 
of the road he so precariously occupied and 
there wait till the mad rampage had spent its 
fury, whenever that might be. In these tu¬ 
multuous minutes the most beautiful appari¬ 
tion in the world, for Mr. Crump, would have 
been a London policeman with uplifted hand, 
on point duty in the Place de l’Opera. 

“ Come along, sir.” 

His heart leapt. The voice, an English¬ 
man’s voice, was the finest music he had ever 
heard; a grip fastened on his arm, and he felt 
safe and sound, and hardly conscious that he 
was being skilfully piloted through the traffic. 
On the pavement outside the Cafe de la Paix 
he came to life again. He sighed audibly, 
and looked at his rescuer. 


45 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ Thank you,” said Mr. Crump, and added, 
with a shudder: “ you see, I only arrived here 
this evening. I think I should like to sit 
down. Perhaps-?” 

But the man had accepted the invitation 
almost before Mr. Crump had delivered it, 
and the waiter was already coming towards 
them. 

“ Order something, anything,” murmured 
Mr. Crump. What he really wanted was a 
quiet whisky and soda in a little place up a 
side-turning in Cannon Street. 

The man gave an order in French, not a 
word of which Mr. Crump was able to recog¬ 
nise; he was equally unable to recognise the 
drink that was placed before him. He gin¬ 
gerly sipped the coloured concoction; it had a 
warm and bitter taste. 

“ That stuff wasn’t made to sip.” 

“ No?” murmured Mr. Crump politely. 
“ Ah, I see. Have another.” And nearly 
choked in an endeavour to swallow entire the 
contents of his glass. 

Mr. Crump furtively inspected his new¬ 
found friend, but hardly knew what to make 
of him. The man’s face was as lean as his own 
and his cheeks not less sallow; he wore a grey 
suit that he had obviously inherited in the 
days of its decline; his soft collar and 
shirt, his necktie and his hat, all of French 
46 



PLACE DE UOPERA 


origin, were rapidly passing into a similar de¬ 
cline, though the man carried them off with a 
certain bravado. Mr. Crump had more than a 
suspicion that the whole man was in process of 
decay, along with his clothes. 

“ You are English?'’ inquired Mr. Crump 
with extreme diffidence. 

“ What’s left of me.” The man twirled 
his empty glass between his fingers. 

“Go on,” said Mr. Crump; “but not for 
me, thanks.” 

After all, he reflected, the man had probably 
saved his life. There was a tinkle of glass on 
the marble table; the man had snapped the 
slender stem of the glass in two, and at once 
started to curse the waiter with a surpassing 
volubility. Mr. Crump sat silent through the 
storm, but under cover of the table trans¬ 
ferred another twenty-franc note from his 
pocket-book to his waistcoat pocket. 

“ And how long have you lived in Paris?” 
he inquired, pretending not to have noticed 
any break in the conversation. 

“ Long enough to speak the blasted lingo 
like a native.” 

“ So I observe,” murmured Mr. Crump. 
“ Of course, I can only go by the sound, not 
being a French scholar myself; but-” 

“ Don’t break your jaw, guv’nor, over a 
poor blighter like me,” interrupted the man, 

47 



GIRL OR BOY 

with a gesture of impatience. “ What’s the 
little game? What are you doing wandering 
about Paris?” 

“ Perhaps it’s a little difficult to explain. 
I just came. That’s about all there is to it.” 

The man grunted. Mr. Crump saw that he 
did not believe him and realised, with some¬ 
thing of a shock, that he had not told the whole 
truth about his trip to Paris. He had under¬ 
taken it, in the first place, to satisfy a whim; 
but he had since discovered a purpose in this 
visit, a mission, upon the details of which, even 
in that moment, his mind was steadily en¬ 
gaged. The idea was germinating fast, and 
again possessed him. His eyes no longer 
looked upon the human panorama that passed 
by his table; and the lights that made them 
sparkle were those of another city. He was 
back in Piccadilly Circus, where a riotous mul¬ 
titude of coloured luminous bulbs had winked 
at him so gaily, so knowingly; where inspira¬ 
tion had come to relieve his agony of mind; 
where the woman had bent over him and pos¬ 
sessed him with her beauty and her fragrance. 
The man’s voice cut across the silence which 
seemed to have fallen upon the Place de 
l’Opera. 

“ Perhaps you’d like to come along with me 
to see a little show?” He leered. 

Mr. Crump stared at the man. Secretly he 
48 


PLACE DE UOPERA 


felt flattered that this pariah should have 
thought it worth while to put up such a sug¬ 
gestion to him; perhaps he was not such a 
poor little man, after all. ... He thought 
rapidly. He remembered to have read in his 
morning paper a paragraph concerning the 
male harpies who infested the street corners 
of the main thoroughfares of Paris; he remem¬ 
bered too that the Paris police had been 
specially instructed to take vigorous action 
against them; and too, on this occasion, he 
had acquired the French for police; he had 
noticed it particularly because it seemed 
rather curious, to his way of thinking. 

“ Is that,” he asked quite casually, with a 
jerk of the head, “ an agent de police?” 

His pronounciation was all wrong, but his 
meaning was sufficiently apparent to the man 
on the other side of the table. He got up, 
muttered something which might have been a 
word of vituperation, or thanks, and pushed 
away his chair. Mr. Crump hugged himself; 
it was a rare experience for him to be in a 
position to disturb any man’s equanimity, and 
he was enjoying it; it gave him a foretaste of 
power. 

“ Sit down,” motioned Mr. Crump, “ and 
listen to me.” Never in his life had he assumed 
such a tone of authority; he hardly recognised 
his own voice; such confidence as he had 

49 


GIRL OR BOY 

never before known sprang up within his 
breast; he felt a match for the world. 

“ What is your name?” demanded Mr. 
Crump. He pushed his chair away from the 
table, crossed his legs, and lit a cigarette with 
fastidious care; he intended to be a big busi¬ 
ness magnate, and he proposed to play the 
part well. 

“ My name,” said the man morosely, “ is 
Still.” 

“ Just that” murmured Mr. Crump, flick¬ 
ering the ash from his cigarette with an ele¬ 
gance and an assurance which he could not 
help but admire. “ Still. Yes, I read a good 
omen into that name.” He leaned over the 
table. 

“ Now!” 

And on that exclamation the soul of Crump 
expired, and in that same moment the bold 
knave was born. Crump’s body goes march¬ 
ing on; but the soul of Crump—of the Mr. 
Crump we have known, as the Morning Star 
knew him, as the eight-forty up and the five 
fifty-five down knew him—can only hover 
disconsolately over the body, awaiting an 
opportunity to regain possession of that fallen 
temple. 


50 


CHAPTER V 
CRUMP RESARTUS 

“ T AM going to let you into a secret,” said 

A Crump. “ I feel that I can trust you. 
I like your grey eyes.” 

Still opened them rather wider. Crump 
nodded approval. 

“ I presume,” Crump went on, “ you don’t 
pick up a living in this fashion for love of the 
thing?” 

The man shrugged his shoulders and mut¬ 
tered something in French. 

“ Quite,” commented Crump, with a per¬ 
fect understanding. “ How would you like to 
come back to London with me?” 

“ And what am I going to do when I get 
there?” 

“ That’s my business.” 

The tone of the employer had already crept 
into Crump’s manner of speech. He signalled 
to the waiter to remove their glasses, flicked 
from his waistcoat pocket the two twenty- 
franc notes, and imperiously waved the incred¬ 
ulous waiter out of his sight. Crump felt that 
the gesture was cheap at the price; and it 
produced the effect he intended on Still. 

“ I will pay you well,” said Crump. “ And 
there’ll be no need for you to worry about the 
police. I want you to act as my secretary. 
On your side that’s about all there is to it. 

51 


GIRL OR BOY 

You will be in my confidence to a certain 
extent, and I shall have to feel that I can 
trust you through everything and anything. 
Please understand that.” 

“ Naturally,” responded Still. “ I don’t 
know what you’ve got in the back of your 
head; but anyway, I can’t be worse off than 
I am now. What’s the figure to be?” 

“ We’ll settle that later on. Mean¬ 
while-” 

Crump took out his bulky pocket-book and 
carelessly selected a ten-pound note from the 
wad of paper money. 

“ I don’t suppose,” he remarked, “ you’ve 
seen one of those for quite a long time. Re¬ 
gard it as payment in advance for a week’s 
probation. Here in Paris, of course.” 

“ Good enough,” said Still. 

“ Thank you,” said Crump. “ And now 
we can really get to business.” Having 
achieved his point he could afford to be 
magnanimous. “ If you like,” he added, “ re¬ 
gard yourself as my adjutant.” 

He spoke without any trace of self-con¬ 
sciousness; he was the general, and he felt 
like a general; and forthwith delivered his 
immediate plan of campaign. 

“ By now,” he propounded, “ you will have 
formed your own impression of the man you 
see sitting before you. I don’t suppose, Still, 
52 



CRUMP RESARTUS 


that it is a particularly favourable one. My 
clothes, for instance, would not lead a stranger 
to expect to find my pockets well lined. You 
may suggest that, like many wealthy men, I 
am somewhat eccentric in my choice of attire, 
and perfectly careless about my appearance. 
Well, I may have been.” 

Crump extracted one leg from beneath the 
table and examined it. He called up a 
momentary impression of Denning’s trousers, 
and smiled maliciously; and in that smile 
there was a suggestion of cunning hitherto 
alien to the primal innocence and kindliness 
of his soul. 

“ One’s legs,” he ruminated, “ are what 
one makes them.” He broke off in some 
doubt: his mind, after this long interval of 
time, had reverted to his desk calendar, and 
he knew that his memory had played him 
false. 

“ No matter,” he said aloud, and dismissed 
this ghost of his former self. He disliked 
these visitations. 

“ This,” he continued, “ is where I require 
your assistance, Still. You know of a good 
tailor in Paris? Not too French. You do? 
Good. I shan’t object to a slight Frenchiness 
in the cut of my clothes—a nuance, you know, 
if that’s what you call it. It will do me no 
harm if it becomes known that I get all my 

S3 


GIRL OR BOY 

clothes made in Paris. . . . Never mind the 
cost. I want the best of everything.” 

Still nodded, and inclined his head in the 
direction of the waiter. 

“ No/’ said Crump sternly. “ Business 
first, relaxation afterwards.” And cursed this 
second visitation. . . . 

“ The best of everything, I said,” he con¬ 
tinued; “ and when I say everything, I mean 
everything. I propose thoroughly to rehabili¬ 
tate myself, down to the last button on my 
shirt—which is probably already missing.” 
He laughed; he was now sufficiently wealthy 
to laugh at such minor deficiencies in his 
costume; for he already thought of himself 
as a rich man; he had only to stretch out his 
hand. ... He drew himself up with a jerk; 
his fingers, he noticed, were creeping over the 
surface of the table in a most uncanny fashion, 
under Still’s observation. He flicked away an 
imaginary crumb, and resumed his discourse. 

“ You must arrange to get me an entirely 
new outfit, and a complete outfit, down to the 
last detail. Clothes for all occasions, under¬ 
wear for all weathers; boots, shoes, hats, 
socks, suspenders, ties, collars, studs, cuff¬ 
links, braces; suit-cases, writing-cases, trunks, 
bags, portmanteaux; and any other articles 
for use or adornment that a gentleman of 
wealth and culture may be expected to require. 
54 


CRUMP RESARTUS 


A gold watch, for instance, and a walking- 
stick, of a unique distinction; and so on. Do 
I make myself perfectly clear, Still?” 

Still merely nodded. 

“ I see,” continued Crump, “ that you are 
a person of infinite discretion. You say noth¬ 
ing; you refrain from expressing astonish¬ 
ment at the nature of my commands.” 

Crump heard his own voice as in a dream; 
it fascinated him; the words that fell from his 
lips seemed to him to come from a source 
external to himself; he began to wonder if 
the green concoction he had been drinking 
had a potency and a charm superior to any¬ 
thing he had ever encountered in that little 
place up a side-turning off Cannon Street. 
... He found himself still talking. 

“ Briefly, I don’t intend to return to Eng¬ 
land wearing one stitch of the clothing I now 
stand up in. And you, Still, you will equip 
yourself in a manner as befits a member of 
my retinue.” 

Still nodded. 

“ Next,” continued Crump, “ I shall want 
you to direct me to a hairdresser’s establish¬ 
ment which is replete with every modern 
device for making the best of a man. Mani¬ 
cure, pedicure, face treatment, hair treat¬ 
ment, electric massage-” 

“ Why not a toupee?” interrupted Still. 

55 



GIRL OR BOY 

Crump was not sure whether to be offended 
or not, but decided that the suggestion was 
good because it would help his disguise. 

“ Possibly,” replied Crump. “ Anyway, I 
shall let the barber do his damnedest daily, 
for a week; and I shall expect to see a change 
in my face by the end of it.” 

Crump stroked his blue and bristly chin; 
and his hollow cheeks already luxuriated in 
the warmth of the steaming towels. ... He 
felt his cheek-bones. 

“ Which brings me to my next point,” he 
went on. “ We’ve both of us got a rather 
lean and hungry look at present; we must 
change all that. For the rest of our stay in 
Paris we are going to live like fighting-cocks: 
four big meals a day, at least. We shall live, 
Still, on the fat of the land, and put plenty of 
flesh on top of our bones. You may have 
noticed that prosperous people usually look 
fat?” 

Still nodded. 

“ Otherwise,” continued Crump, “ we shall 
pursue a normal sort of life for the rest of our 
stay in Paris. I give you a week in which 
to make these preparations. I shall help, of 
course; but you will do all the talking. You’d 
better stay with me at my hotel.” 

Still nodded. Crump found the man’s face 
and his silence alike inscrutable. For one bad 
56 


CRUMP RESARTUS 


moment he wondered whether he had mis¬ 
taken his man; but no, he was the sort of 
creature who knew on which side his bread 
was buttered. . . . 

“ Ah/’ exclaimed Crump, “ there’s one 
thing more I must tell you. These clothes 
I’m now wearing—boots, hat, braces, every¬ 
thing—I shall put together in one bag—the 
one I’ve brought with me, in fact—and you 
will hold on to this bag like grim death. I 
shall keep an eye on it too; but I rely upon 
you to safeguard this as you would your own 
life. The contents of that bag will mean more 
to me than I can say.” 

He might have added that it would really 
contain the mortal remains of Mr. Crump. 

“ Now,” murmured Crump, a little tiredly, 
“ before we go there’s a job I want you to do 
for me. I want you to get a wire off for me, 
to London.” 

Crump took out a pencil and tore a page 
from his note-book. He tried hard not to, 
but he could not help glancing at some of the 
past entries. Most of them concerned orders 
for booking advertisement space in the Morn¬ 
ing Star; they presented a long panorama of 
inches and columns, and every inch repre¬ 
sented an effort and every column an achieve¬ 
ment in the life of Mr. Crump. He found it 
difficult to collect his thoughts, although the 

57 


GIRL OR BOY 

message he had to send was simple enough. 
He tore the note-book in two and crammed the 
fragments into his pocket, thus drastically 
suppressing its melting influence; and with 
not too firm a hand wrote out: 

“ Mrs. Crump, 11 Maze Hill Road, 
London, S.E., Hotel Como. Business 
good. Can’t say when returning. Don’t 
worry. Much love.—D.” 

He handed the piece of paper across the 
table. 

“ Better see if you can make it out,” re¬ 
marked Crump. 

Still read it, and nodded. 

“ Hang it all, man,” ejaculated Crump. 
“ What’s happened to your tongue? Have 
I engaged a mute as my confidential servant?” 

“ I wonder you didn’t.” 

The man’s smile reassured Crump; but it 
was another bad moment for him, and he so 
far unbent himself as to lean across the table 
and whisper: 

“ What are you really thinking about?” 

“ I was thinking,” replied Still, with a 
reminiscent look in his grey eyes, “ that of all 
the queer coves I’ve met you’re just about the 
deepest, Mr. Crump.” 

“ What was that?” 


58 


CRUMP RESARTUS 


“ Isn’t that your name?” 

Crump looked away from the lights that 
flashed their messages from the tall buildings 
around the Place de l’Opera and lifted his 
eyes to the stars. These too now winked at 
him, how gaily, how knowingly! 

“ No,” he said. “ That is not my name. 
. . . We’ll go now.” 


59 


CHAPTER VI 

MR. MARCUS FAITHFUL 


T HE boat train drew up in Victoria 
station. From a cursory examination of 
those arriving by it an observer would have 
inferred that the most distinguished personage 
on board was the gentleman last to descend 
from the Pullman Car. Certainly he was of 
quite medium stature, but the clothes he wore, 
and wore well, set off to perfection his some¬ 
what portly figure. The clothes themselves 
were a masterpiece of the tailor’s art. The 
cut of the morning coat was neither English 
nor French, but a happy combination of the 
two styles; the elegance and the distinction of 
this coat represented the ultimate achievement 
of the genius of two nations and centuries 
of sartorial practice. The trousers, too, ex¬ 
pressed in themselves something of the dignity 
and the prosperity of the wearer; and the 
crease in them that converged from the abdo¬ 
men to the ankles elevated him above the 
common run of mortals. This hall-mark of 
perfection was stamped upon every detail of 
his costume and his person. One exposed 
hand was no less peerless than the lavender 
glove upon the other; and it drew forth a 
gold watch of such beauty and treasure that 
it would have seemed out of place on any 
ordinary person. The visitor’s face was just 
60 


MR. MARCUS FAITHFUL 


pleasantly rotund: the glow of health in his 
cheeks gave evidence that he was a man who 
did not spare himself the rich delights of the 
table. So much of his hair as was visible 
beneath the top hat was black and sleek; it 
looked, in fact, almost too good to be true. 

“ You got confirmation of that suite at the 
Hotel Grande Riche, Still?” 

Still nodded. Crump by now had become 
used to this nod of the head. It was, in fact, 
something more than a mere nod: an obeisance, 
rather, and an act of deferential admiration 
not unworthy of the presence that evoked it. 

“ Good. I propose to get along there. I 
shall leave you to look after the luggage.” 

By this time the contents of the luggage 
van nearest them had been disgorged on to 
the platform, and the greater part of the pile 
belonged to Crump. A porter surveyed the 
collection and went off in search of a barrow 
of suitable dimensions. 

“ Quick!” rapped out Crump. “ Get those 
labels changed. I’ll cover you.” He glanced 
over his shoulder; there was no one in their 
immediate vicinity. “ Give me a few,” he 
added. “ And thank God we’ve got through!” 

Three minutes later he was walking up the 
platform with a second porter at his heels. 
The porter carried a worn suit-case, which 
was obviously regarded by its owner as being 

61 


GIRL OR BOY 

of particular importance. A padlock attach¬ 
ment—a recent addition—gave it an almost 
sinister appearance; and indeed the contents 
were rather sinister: they comprised Crump’s 
old clothes. In the taxi-cab Crump felt that 
he was travelling with his own corpse; and 
although this was no more than a momentary 
weakness on his part he was grateful to find 
himself at his destination, immune from this 
ghostly intrusion of his departed spirit. At 
the Hotel Grand Riche the reception clerk 
deferentially glanced at him, lowered his eyes 
and murmured: 

“ Mr. Marcus Faithful?” 

“ Yes,” said Crump, and accepted the 
proffered pen, and inscribed in the book a 
flowing signature which he had assiduously 
practised—“ Marcus Faithful, Paris.” His 
hand may have trembled slightly; but when 
it was done he looked at the signature approv¬ 
ingly; it gave him courage and confidence; 
he warmed at the sight of it; and in that 
moment, in his own mind, Marcus Faithful 
assumed a corporate entity. He put down 
the pen, had a sudden feeling that he was 
being observed from behind, and turned 
round. 

It was Bennett, a reporter on the Morning 
Star: a frivolous young man who had never 
been made to understand that his salary was 
62 


MR. MARCUS FAITHFUL 


paid out of advertisement revenues which he, 
Crump, helped to collect; instead, Bennett had 
regarded him merely as a source of humour; 
and in that instant, Crump became Mr. 
Crump, late of the Morning Star. . . . He 
walked towards the lift. Bennett, he knew, 
had gone straight for the reception clerk. He 
dimly realised that he was being conducted to 
the resplendent suite of rooms which had been 
allotted to Mr. Marcus Faithful; but when he 
reached them and he was left alone he could 
still see nothing of them. He flopped down 
on to a lounge; he felt hot all over; even his 
clothes terrified him. He looked wildly 
around for his old suit-case. A knock came 
at the door, and Still walked into the room. 

“ Everything’s all right,” he announced, 
with a glance round the apartment; “ and 
there’s a reporter from the Morning Star 
downstairs wants to know if you will grant 
him the favour of an interview.” 

An interview! The words put new heart 
into Mr. Crump; Mr. Crump, in fact, forgot 
his identity once more and became plain 
Crump or even. . . . 

“ Mr. Marcus Faithful, sir?” 

The voice was Bennett’s, and the name he 
pronounced fell like an echo on his ears. 

“ I knocked, sir, and I thought-” 

“ That’s all right,” interrupted Crump, 

63 



GIRL OR BOY 

rising from his seat and dismissing Still with 
a gesture which was a perfect blend of con¬ 
descension and good regard. He knew that 
he was safe. This Bennett was not the 
chaffing persecutor he knew, but a jejune 
reporter, hungry for news, fired with the 
expectation that he was on the track of a good 
story. Crump was flattered: he had, then, 
created an impression; his disguise had not 
been penetrated; he was safe, safe. He 
expanded beneath the warming influence of 
the word. 

“ Please sit down.” 

The invitation was amiable, but the voice 
was that of a man accustomed to be obeyed. 
Bennett sat on the edge of a chair and fum¬ 
bled with his hands. 

“ Have a cigarette,” murmured Crump, 
mercifully. He rose from the lounge and held 
a match to Bennett’s cigarette; he noticed 
that the man’s fingers were twitching; the 
spell was working, although he quite well 
realised that Bennett would have been less 
nervous had he been in possession of any in¬ 
formation whatsoever concerning the person 
he had decided to interview purely on the 
grounds of personal appearance. 

“ I understand,” ventured Bennett, “ that 
you have just crossed from Paris?” 

“ That is so.” Crump already affected a 


64 


MR. MARCUS FAITHFUL 

certain weariness which tended to enhance his 
dignity. 

“ Where you have been working?” Ben¬ 
nett broke off, hoping that Crump might help 
him out; but Crump did not more than 
languidly incline his head. 

“ On the subject of—er—let me see. . . .” 

“ I understood,” interrupted Crump, with a 
fierce severity of tone, “ that you are on the 
staff of the Morning Star?” 

“ I am,” replied the miserable Bennett. 

Crump grunted, and that grunt was one of 
the most contented noises to which Crump 
had ever given utterance. This young whip¬ 
per-snapper who in times past had often made 
his life a misery and a burden had been de¬ 
livered into his hands. Fortune’s wheel was 
turning. . . . 

“ And to what do I owe the pleasure of this 
interview?” 

Crump’s tone was ominous, and Bennett, 
taking what was left of his courage in both 
hands, blurted out: 

“ You must excuse me, sir, but what have 
you been working at? I’m afraid that I’m 
not very well up in science. You must allow 
me to say that I can’t associate you with 
anything in the ordinary way of business.” 

“No?” murmured Crump, late advertise¬ 
ment canvasser of the Morning Star. 


65 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ Possibly you have brought over with you 
the news of some important scientific discov¬ 
ery or-” 

“ Or?” repeated Crump, not very help¬ 
fully. 

“Hell!” exclaimed Bennett. “I suppose 
I have made a mistake. I apologise for 
troubling you. I hope I shall feel better after 
a drink. Thank you. Good-night.” And 
made for the door. 

Crump was on his feet in a moment, and 
pushed the bell. 

“ Sit down,” he commanded. “ I hope 
that I am sufficiently magnanimous to forgive 
your lack of experience; and I can certainly 
much more easily forgive the ignorance you 
display not merely of my identity, but of my 
life’s work. In this respect you are no worse 
off than the rest of your countrymen—and 
mine. I shall be glad to give you an oppor¬ 
tunity of communicating something of its 
nature to the readers of your paper, which, I 
seem to remember, is an organ of some impor¬ 
tance. You see, I’ve been out of the country 
for the last ten years.” 

“ Then you must notice several changes?” 

“Very many,” murmured Crump; “but 
I don’t suppose I need detail them to you. 
If you would like to include some mention of 
them in your report of this interview you will 
66 



MR. MARCUS FAITHFUL 


know the sort of thing that’s wanted: some¬ 
thing about the incomparable beauty of the 
London girl, something about the traffic and 
the ’buses, something about the climate, and 
whatever else you leave out don’t forget to put 
in something about the London policeman.” 

“ I have some excellent specimens in that 
line already prepared,” remarked Bennett, 
now warming up to the work in hand. “I’ll 
see that you get the best of them. Did I 
understand you to say that you had passed 
the last ten years in Paris, Mr. Faithful?” 

“ By no means,” replied Crump. “ Cer¬ 
tainly I’ve spent a great deal of time in that 
city, working on the problems presented by 
my discoveries; but all my practical research 
work has been done elsewhere.” 

“ In Europe?” 

“ No, among the mountains of Peru.” 

“ That’s excellent,” exclaimed Bennett; 
“ sounds most interesting: the land of the 
Incas, and all that sort of thing. Certain 
geological discoveries, no doubt?” 

“ No,” murmured Crump, with a con¬ 
temptuous shrug of his shoulders. 

“ Zoological?” 

“ No.” Crump was getting impatient. 

“ Biological?” Bennett racked his brains 
in an endeavour to recollect other recognised 
branches of human knowledge. 


67 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ That’s rather nearer my subject,” said 
Crump with a lofty condescension. 

“ Physiological?” groaned Bennett. 

“ Yes.” Crump pronounced the word as 
if he were weighed down under the solemnity 
of the pronouncement. “ Yes,” he added, 
“ I have been investigating the vital phenom¬ 
ena of the processes of life. A fascinating 

study, I assure you, Mr. -? I’m afraid 

I didn’t catch your name.” 

Bennett got up from his seat and stood over 
the languid Crump with a menace in his eyes. 

“ You’re playing with me, Mr. Faithful,” 
he said sternly. “ If you’ve anything of 
importance to communicate to me, and if 
you want to see it in to-morrow’s Morning 
Star , I must be back at the office within a 
quarter of an hour.” 

“ Is that so?” murmured Crump. “ If 
the world has managed to wait all these 
centuries for my discovery it will probably be 
able to get through another twenty-four with¬ 
out it.” 

“ But anything might happen to you within 
the next twenty-four hours,” protested Ben¬ 
nett. “You might get run down and killed_” 

“Yes,” agreed Crump, very seriously and 
thoughtfully. “ That would be decidedly 
awkward—in more ways than one. I sup¬ 
pose I’d better oblige you now.” 

68 



MR. MARCUS FAITHFUL 


Bennett sat down and tried to review the 
situation. Here was a man of obvious distinc¬ 
tion in appearance and in his surroundings; 
the suite he occupied was the most sumptuous 
in London’s most regal hotel: a suite usually 
occupied only by royalty or princely financiers. 
Doubtless he had inherited his enormous 
wealth and pursued his studies in those out¬ 
landish parts purely as a hobby. He could not 
have made his money out of science: this much 
was certain; for otherwise his name would have 
been familiar. But Mr. Marcus Faithful was 
now speaking again, with slow deliberation. 

“ The subject of my research was a rather 
delicate one. No opportunity for any such 
investigation presented itself in England, or 
anywhere else in Europe, to the best of my 
knowledge. I had to go abroad. Why I 
fixed on Peru I don’t quite know, apart from 
the fact that I wanted to pursue my inquiries 
among a race of people who were in a state of 
decline rather than in the ascendant.” 

“ So that the conditions of your experiment 
should be more or less comparable to those 
obtaining in this country?” 

“Partly that,” admitted Crump; “but 
chiefly because of a certain looseness in the 
moral tone of the community.” 

“ I wish you wouldn’t talk in riddles,” 
interjected Bennett. 


69 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ If,” said Crump, with an intimidating 
glance, “ you expect me to satisfy your pruri¬ 
ent curiosity by exhibiting an indecent haste 
in the unfolding of my narrative, and if you 
expect me to relate in ten seconds the story of 
a discovery which has absorbed my attention 
for the last ten years, then I am very much 
afraid that you will have to disappoint your 
million odd readers to-morrow morning.” 

“ I apologise,” replied Bennett, with un¬ 
feigned humility. “ But the Irish edition goes 
to press in an hour’s time.” 

“ Ireland can wait,” announced Crump, 
with a lordly indifference. “ You should 
understand,” he went on, after a leisurely in¬ 
spection of the ornate cornice around the lofty 
walls of the apartment, “ that my discovery 
will certainly revolutionise the marriage rela¬ 
tionship, solve many of our present-day indus¬ 
trial problems, ensure a greater degree of 
human happiness, and, ultimately, and no less 
infallibly, decide the destiny of nations, which 
turns solely on the question of man-power. 
There are, too, other aspects of my discovery, 
which I don’t propose to enumerate at the 
moment. Besides, they will probably suggest 
themselves to you.” 

“ But I don’t yet know the nature of this 
wonderful discovery of yours,” groaned Ben¬ 
nett. Never before had he been treated in 
70 


MR. MARCUS FAITHFUL 


this cavalier fashion; it was something unique 
in his experience; but however much he re¬ 
sented it he did not dare to protest. He looked 
Crump up and down. There was nothing 
flashy about the man; he did not give one the 
impression of being a charlatan; he had not 
asked to be interviewed. . . . 

“ Reflect a moment,” murmured Crump, 
with a kindly and almost paternal air. “ What 
particular act in life is surrounded with not 
merely the greatest but with absolute uncer¬ 
tainty?” 

“ Marriage, I suppose you mean,” replied 
Bennett in a renewed agony of impatience. 

“ You are a fool,” reproved Crump. “ Do 
you imagine that I should have spent ten 
years in Peru in order to discover anything 
quite so obvious? Think again.” 

“ My God,” ejaculated Bennett, “ this is 
awful!” bidding a mute farewell to the Irish 
edition. “ I thought that I was interviewing 
you.” 

Crump gravely consulted his opulent gold 
watch. 

“ I’m afraid I must ask you to go,” he 
said. “ Let me therefore inform you very 
briefly that the next ten months are going to 
make history in the domestic life of this na¬ 
tion. I happen to have solved the problem of 
the determination of sex. Now you know.” 

71 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ You have?” 

Crump did not deign to answer. 

“ You have proof?” 

“ For any who doubt my word,” said Crump 
with some asperity. 

He moved towards the door. 

“ And the actual details of your dis¬ 
covery-” 

“—will only be communicated to respon¬ 
sible persons,” interjected Crump, with one 
hand on the door-handle. 

“ You propose to make your discovery a 
gift to humanity?” 

“ To individuals only, for a consideration— 
as a safeguard. My consulting-rooms will 
shortly be opened.” Crump turned the 
handle. . . . 

At seven o’clock the next morning Crump 
was sitting up in bed. For the first time in 
his life he had slept in silk pyjamas. His mind 
reverted to Millie; he wondered what she 
would think of them. ... In the rush of the 
last few days only occasionally had he remem¬ 
bered her existence, although the problem she 
presented was always at the back of his mind. 
More than a week had elapsed, and he would 
have to face her soon—to-morrow even! The 
blinds in his bedroom had been drawn up and 
the curtains pulled aside; it was pleasant to lie 
72 


MR. MARCUS FAITHFUL 


there, in a state of perfect repose, and to look 
at the sky. The life of the great hotel was 
already beginning to throb, and he reflected, 
with considerable gratification, that the whole 
of its organisation was at his service. The 
dreary business of life, in most of its mechani¬ 
cal aspects, resolved itself into the simple ques¬ 
tion of pressing a button for this thing and for 
that. . . . This was luxury. He glanced at the 
enchantingly tiny teapot beside the bed and 
the miraculously thin slices of bread and but¬ 
ter. Under these conditions the ordeal of get¬ 
ting up was robbed of half its terrors. And at 
that very moment Millie, in a different world, 
in the dismal world of the suburbs, in Maze 
Hill, like thousands of other women, was 
descending to a dark and chilly kitchen to 
light the fire. . . . Mr. Crump shuddered. 
He was grateful to hear a knock on the door. 

“ Your Morning Star f sir.” 

He flung it open at the main news page. 
Yes, it was there: a half-column of it! Mr. 
Marcus Faithful at the Hotel Grande Riche— 
the Land of the Incas—ten years of exile in 
the service of humanity—epoch-making dis¬ 
covery—an instrument for good or ill?—safe 
in his keeping—its importance to the well¬ 
being and the future of the race—the greatest 
physiological advance since the beginning of 
time—glad to be back—the London police- 

73 


GIRL OR BOY 

man still incomparable; no time to be lost in 
communicating the fruits of his beneficent 
discovery to the public—obvious at a first 
glance that Mr. Marcus Faithful is a very 
remarkable man. . . . 

Yes, it was all there, in measure overflow¬ 
ing. Bennett had left nothing out, and put a 
great deal in. 

“ Publicity!” murmured the great little 
man; and stretched his legs, and went to 
sleep again. 


74 


CHAPTER VII 
FAME 


W HEN, two hours later, Crump opened 
his eyes he found Still sitting by the 
window. Still had not managed to put on a 
great deal of weight during the past week or 
ten days, but he now looked sleek rather 
than thin, and the sombre grey of his suit 
admirably conformed with the faultless defer¬ 
ence of his manner. He sat with folded 
arms, mournfully surveying the pattern in the 
carpet. 

“ Why, what’s the matter, Still?” Crump 
foreboded some disastrous complication, sat 
up in bed, and glanced round the room. He 
half expected to find that Still had made all 
preparations for a sudden flight, but the only 
change he noticed was that the receiver had 
been removed from the telephone on the table 
beside his bed. 

“ Did you do this?” 

Still nodded, and a great light dawned upon 
Crump; his whole being thrilled, and a smile 
broke over his face. 

“ Tell me all about it, Still,” he purred, and 
hugged his shoulders. 

“ Well, sir,” said Still, walking up to the 
bed, “ about an hour ago the girl in the ex¬ 
change here asked me if you were awake. 
She said that her lines were choked up with 

75 


GIRL OR BOY 

calls for you, and was she to put them through. 
I told her no, and took off the receiver as a 
precautionary measure. Newspaper men,” 
added Still, with a toss of the head. 

“ Of course,” commented Crump. “ Go 
on.” 

“But they wouldn’t be put off and came 
along here. They’re here now, dozens of 
them; they’re outside and they’re inside; 
they’ve got a watch on every door in the place. 
I dare say that some of them are prowling 
about the roof, and I shouldn’t be a bit sur¬ 
prised to see one of them come up through 
the floor-boards.” 

“ I notice that you’ve shut the windows,” 
remarked Crump. 

“ Another precautionary measure,” replied 
Still, with a fearful glance over his left shoul¬ 
der. “ I tell you, sir,” he went on, “ I daren’t 
show my face outside either. They got hold 
of me half an hour ago.” He shuddered. 
“ They’d have given me the earth if I’d un¬ 
locked the door of this room. Threatened to 
do me in, they did.” 

“ Thank you, Still,” murmured Crump. 
“ Go on.” 

“ One of them—I think his name’s Bennett 
—has booked a room on this floor: says he 
means to have a second exclusive, I think: 
told me you wouldn’t refuse because you 
76 


FAME 


owed a great deal to him; and asked me to 
let you know that he did catch the Irish edi¬ 
tion. I wouldn’t mind betting,” added Still 
vindictively, “ that he’s not far off the key¬ 
hole at this very minute!” 

“ I won’t listen to such a suggestion,” said 
Crump severely. “ But go on.” 

“ Oh, well,” said Still, with an offended 
air, “ if you want to be turned inside out by 
these fellows you’ve only got to put the tip of 
your nose outside the door. It’s not for me to 
say whether I think it’s a safe thing to do.” 
He looked at Crump darkly. 

“ You may be right, Still,” murmured 
Crump. “ One unguarded word— and we 
shall both be blown sky-high.” 

“ Excuse me, sir, but how much money 
have we got left?” 

Crump hardly knew whether or no to take 
offence at this conspiratorial phraseology; he 
decided that it might be unwise to do so. 

“ A five-pound note, and some change.” 

They looked steadily at each other for 
several seconds on end. Crump then did up 
the top button of his pyjama jacket, and with 
that gesture reinstated the relationship of 
master and man. 

“ I am going to get up,” he said. “ Please 
see to my bath.” 

But he did not rise immediately; he lay 

77 


GIRL OR BOY 

back on the pillow, with his hands crossed 
behind his head, and thought hard. 

“ Yes,” he murmured to himself, “ I’d 
better get it over at once.” He allowed his 
attention to wander round the room. After 
all, he would be returning to it: that was some 
consolation. Twenty-four hours with Millie! 
It was a long time to have to play a very 
difficult part; but he would have to go 
through with it. His eyes rested on the dis¬ 
mantled telephone; it looked untidy, and he 
replaced the receiver. The instrument at 
once sprang to life; the bell kept up a long, 
continuous din, which sent a shiver down his 
spine. He shouted for Still. 

“ Who is it?” he demanded. 

Still put his hand over the mouthpiece. 

“ The Countess of Haslemere.” 

“ Find out what she wants.” Crump looked 
up at the ceiling; and through it, and far be¬ 
yond it, saw the gates of fame opening 
wide. 

“ She wants to know, sir, if you will grant 
her an interview; and she asks me to say that 
she will be pleased to pay anything for a 
consultation.” 

“ Tell her,” said Crump, as one who charily 
dispensed his favours, “ that I am going into 
the country until the day after to-morrow and 
that I will see her when I return.” 

78 


FAME 


Still replaced the receiver. 

“ She wishes me to tell you that she is more 
than grateful, and that she is sure that you are 
going to make all the difference to her life.” 

“ A five-pound note and some small 
change!” Crump laughed outright. “ I don’t 
think it matters,” he chuckled. “ Still, get 
me out that old suit-case of mine.” 

Three-quarters of an hour later there 
emerged from the dressing-room a strange and 
yet a very familiar figure. It was Mr. Crump. 
Mr. Crump of the shaggy hair, the baggy 
trousers, the semi-unshaven face; Mr. Crump 
of the rather dingy butterfly collar and the tie 
which rode so uncomfortably upon it; ad¬ 
mittedly a little fuller in the face, but, with 
this solitary change, the authentic Mr. 
Crump, late of the Morning Star. 

“ Still!” 

His voice had not lost its tone of authority: 
although his clothes remained the same, his 
spirit had grown out of them; and Still, who 
had been prepared for this change in his 
employer’s external appearance, stiffly awaited 
his instructions. 

“ You understand, Still. I have gone into 
the country for a day or two. I hope to be 
back to-morrow, though. Beyond this you 
know nothing. Now see if the corridor’s 
clear.” 


79 


GIRL OR BOY 

Still stealthily opened the door and peered 
outside. 

“Now’s your chance!” he whispered. Mr. 
Crump took it, and within a few seconds had 
reached the main corridor. He could hear 
someone approaching from around the corner, 
but walked straight on. He tried to brush 
past the oncoming figure. . . . 

“ Well, I’m damned if it isn’t little 
Crumpie!” 

The voice was Bennett’s, and Mr. Crump’s 
heart beat fast. 

“ What the hell are you doing here?” 

Mr. Crump made no reply; he had always 
endeavoured to treat Bennett’s sallies with a 
simulated indifference. 

“Got a new job yet?” He thrust his hands 
in his pocket, set his legs astride, and sur¬ 
veyed Mr. Crump from a very great height. 

“ Please get out of my way.” It was the 
authentic voice of Mr. Crump, of a piece with 
the clothes. . . . 

Bennett smiled. 

“ You don’t mean to tell me,” he scoffed, 
“ that you’ve been trying to persuade the 
great man to do some advertising? My God, 
if that isn’t rich! If we can’t get at him, I’m 
damn sure-” 

“ I have seen him,” interrupted Mr. Crump, 
“ and he does propose to advertise his service; 
80 



FAME 


he refuses to be dependent on grubbers like 
yourself for the publicity he desires. And now 
will you please get out of my way?” 

For the moment Mr. Crump had forgotten 
his part, and Bennett collapsed under the 
assault. Mr. Crump continued his journey 
under a salvo of oaths. Before he gained the 
street he had to agree that Still had not in¬ 
dulged in any exaggeration in his report of 
the state of siege. Mr. Crump was able to 
recognise a journalist when he saw one; and 
journalists that morning had descended on the 
hotel like a band of locusts. The majority of 
them maintained a pretence of patronising the 
establishment, but no stranger in the vicinity 
escaped their vigilance. Doubtless they saw 
Mr. Crump put in an appearance, but none of 
them thought it worth while to take a second 
look; and he passed through the crowd of 
them unregarded. Another band, rather less 
opulent, occupied the main approach to the 
hotel, and Press photographers were firmly 
entrenched on the kerb of the hotel court¬ 
yard. Even as the door swung round to 
permit of Mr. Crump’s exit their hands went 
expectantly to their cameras, only to fall 
again. Mr. Crump gave then an apologetic 
smile, which passed unnoticed. Indeed, Mr. 
Crump would have flattered himself had he 
suspected any sort of danger of discovery. 


81 


GIRL OR BOY 

At the first post office he came to he 
stopped, and sent off a wire to Millie: “ Back 
on flying visit. Calling at office, then home.” 
This done, he realised that he had not yet 
breakfasted, and walked into a tea-shop. The 
menu was distressingly familiar; it was a long 
time since he had seen such an array of two¬ 
penny, fourpenny and sixpenny dishes. . . . 
The tiny cloud of depression that had risen 
before him when he left the hotel and became 
once more a mere item in the busy world of 
men, now steadily grew and closed over him. 
He left untouched the poached egg on toast 
which a waitress had set before him: even the 
coffee choked him, reminding him too poig¬ 
nantly of that other coffee he had tasted in 
France. He then noticed that a customer 
in the seat opposite was reading the main 
news page of the Morning Star. This was 
too much to be borne, and he hastily left the 
restaurant. 

“ Better get it over/’ he muttered to him¬ 
self, and walked in the direction of Charing 
Cross Station. He felt like a fish out of 
water; life as he had known it during this 
past week, was but the dream of a dream, the 
delight and the excitement of which he dared 
hardly hope to recapture. He looked up at 
the train indicator at Charing Cross: 9.47, 
10.3, 10.27, 10.42—so they ran, and he had 
82 


FAME 


to glance at the clock to find his precise where¬ 
abouts in the desert of time. Never before 
had he travelled down the line at this hour of 
the day; life was indeed a topsy-turvy affair. 
On the platform the porters set up their rau¬ 
cous, modulated chant—“ Greenwich, Maze 
Hill, Westcombe Park, Charlton, Woolwich, 
and Plumstead ”—a cry which, through the 
passage of years, had been burned into his 
soul, but seemed now to come from another 
world. He bought his usual penny morning 
paper—not the Morning Star —and found 
himself trying to read it upside down. 

“ Hanged if I know if I’m on my head or 
my heels,” he growled, and rested his eyes on 
the dreary expanse of chimneys and roofs that 
littered the landscape. 

The lamp-post outside his house! Ah, he 
recognised that! Yes, he was home again, 
home! And there was Millie in her green 
apron, taking in the milk! The sight of her 
thrilled him still. Here were rest, peace, 
security—for twenty-four hours, if not for 
ever. He knew in his heart that it would not 
be for ever: the urge for fame and for riches 
and, in a lesser degree, for his revenge on so¬ 
ciety, was still upon him, though dormant for 
the moment. For twenty-four hours he, Mr. 
Crump, would occupy his allotted station in 

life, and then-! He snapped his fingers 

83 



GIRL OR BOY 

at the little world around him and at the 
greater world beyond. 

“ David!” 

“ Millie!” 

They embraced in full view of the neigh¬ 
bourhood. 

The Crumps invariably retired early to rest, 
and long before ten o’clock this particular 
evening the connubial couch was calling them. 
Mr. Crump was winding up the formidable 
marble clock on the imitation marble mantel¬ 
shelf when his wife crept to his side and shyly 
produced a copy of that day’s Morning Star. 

“ You’ve seen it, haven’t you, David?” 

“ Of course I have, my dear.” Mr. Crump 
slammed-to the face of the clock and dropped 
the key into the customary china ornament 
with an unusual clatter. 

“ And you’ve seen that interview with-” 

“ Yes, yes,” he interjected, not daring to 
meet her eyes. He resisted with considerable 
difficulty an acute temptation to run for the 
door. 

“ He says, David, that he can-” 

“ I know all about it,” he interrupted a 
second time. 

“ I know, David, that it’s different with us. 

I’ve never-” Tears came to her eyes and 

every line in her face expressed the one 
84 





FAME 


abiding sorrow of her life. She nestled into 
his arms. 

“ Oh, David/’ she whispered, “ he might 
be able to help. Don’t you think I might 
write to him, or even try to see him?” 

Mr. Crump went cold all over and his arms 
that clasped her were stiff with fright. He 
felt that he was on the brink of a great 
enormity. . . . 

“ Certainly not,” he said loudly, vehe¬ 
mently. “ I won’t allow it. The man’s a 
quack, a fraud, a scoundrel!” 

He kissed her dry lips; his own, too, were 
dry; and gently he led her out of the room. 


85 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE WORM TURNS 

A HEAVY saloon car smoothly drew up 
outside the offices of the Morning Star 
and a blue-liveried chauffeur sprang from the 
wheel to open the door. Crump emerged from 
the interior. Not even the sheen on the car 
matched the glossiness of his appearance. In 
this grubby newspaper world he shone with 
the beauty and the perfection of some exotic 
bloom. Even the newsboys paused in their 
mad career to glance at him; no doubt assum¬ 
ing that he was a newspaper proprietor fresh 
from the Riviera. . . . Crump, by this time, 
had long since parted with his small change; 
he had indeed broken badly into his last five- 
pound note. He had forgotten about Millie’s 
housekeeping money, and had not been able 
to offer her less than three pounds to cover 
her expenses over the next ten days, at the 
end of which period he had promised to pay 
her another flying visit. But Crump was not 
worrying overmuch. He had fixed up an 
appointment with the Countess of Haslemere 
for the following afternoon for a ten-guinea 
fee, and the Countess was only the first in a 
series of such appointments. When he left 
the hotel Still was not more than half-way 
through the morning’s post. Crump could 
afford to smile at his cash balance. He 
86 


THE WORM TURNS 


walked up to the commissionaire behind the 
counter on the ground floor. 

“ Is the advertisement director in?” he 
asked. 

“ Mr. Denning, you mean, sir?” 

“ If that’s his name, yes,” snapped Crump. 
His impatience was not entirely simulated: he 
was impatient with himself for allowing his 
knees to tremble a little on hearing that name 
again. Denning! In whose great hand he 
used to lie! Denning! So recently the dis¬ 
penser of his life and work. Crump’s hand 
went to his black cravat, and in that touch he 
found consolation. Not even Denning had 
aspired to a black cravat. . . . Crump pulled 
his Parisian morning coat well over the shoul¬ 
ders. The garment gave him a feeling of 
security; it was to him more than an armour 
of mail; it was indeed an impregnable wall of 
defence. If ever clothes made a man they 
made Crump. 

“ Will you please fill up this form, sir, for 
an interview?” 

Crump looked at the commissionaire once 
and looked at him twice. 

“Form!” he rapped out. “Form! I 
never fill up forms! Ring through to Mr. 
Denning and tell him that Mr. Marcus Faith¬ 
ful would like to have a word with him.” 

The commissionaire delivered the message 

87 


GIRL OR BOY 

over the house telephone and announced that 
Mr. Denning would see him shortly. 

“ Tell him,” said Crump, “ that I am not 
accustomed to waiting.” He turned in the 
direction of the lift. Before he reached it he 
heard the commissionaire’s voice protesting 
that the gentleman was already on the way up 
and that it wasn’t his fault. . . . And Crump 
smiled: foolishly, no doubt, but never in his 
life before had he dared to treat himself to the 
luxury of addressing that commissionaire with 
such imperial condescension. Crump was col¬ 
lecting the debts of a life-time. 

He recognised the lift-boy as well as if he 
had been his own son. A few weeks earlier, 
with Mr. Crump as passenger, this boy would 
have assumed a posture of negligent ease on 
the way and before the journey was over 
would probably have whistled the latest music- 
hall refrain. To-day he stood stiffly to atten¬ 
tion. Crump duly noted the change; it was 
perhaps the most gratifying of all his recent 
triumphs. But in no way remarkable: he had 
to admit that the personage whose reflection 
he scrutinised in the lift mirror would very 
forcibly have impressed him, in the old days; 
in fact, it still powerfully affected him, for, 
truth to tell, Crump had not yet become 
entirely accustomed to his new face. 

The business manager emerged from Den- 

88 


THE WORM TURNS 


ning’s ante-room as Crump walked up on the 
heels of the lift-boy. He had been turned 
out by Denning to make way for Crump, and 
Crump, who knew that he had been turned 
out, reflected that wonders would never cease. 
He gazed at the business manager so 
fiercely that that gentleman was consider¬ 
ably abashed; and Crump privately decided 
that he would never again walk in terror of 
anyone or anything on this earth. 

“ Mr. Marcus Faithful, I believe? Good 
morning,” Denning delivered a comprehen¬ 
sive glance at his visitor, motioned him to a 
seat, and resumed his own. They regarded 
each other over the familiar expanse of plate- 
glass. 

“ I think,” said Crump, with a pleasing 
innocence of manner, “ that you look after the 
advertisements in the Morning Star?” 

Denning unfolded his hands and grasped 
the arms of his magisterial chair. 

“ I am,” he replied with some emphasis, 
“ the advertisement director.” 

“ I understand,” murmured Crump with 
unabashed innocence. “ It comes to much the 
same thing, doesn’t it? However, Mr. Den¬ 
ning, I mustn’t waste my time, or yours,” he 
added, as an afterthought. “ You have heard 
about my work?” 

Denning gravely inclined his head. 


89 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ I propose,” continued Crump, “ to make 
use of your columns. I refer, of course, to 
your advertisement columns.” 

Denning lifted his eyebrows. 

“ I should have thought, Mr. Faithful, that 
you would have hardly felt it necessary to pay 
for publicity.” 

“ I hope,” said Crump, with a rising note 
of dignity, “ that I may be spared the obnox¬ 
ious attentions of irresponsible reporters. 
You must understand that I have a message 
to deliver to the public and a duty to fulfil; 
and that message I propose to deliver, and 
that duty I propose to fufil, in my own way.” 

“ The doctrine you preach is a sound one, 
Mr. Faithful.” 

“ And,” continued Crump, “ I propose to 
preach it in your advertisement columns.” 

“You mean,” interposed Denning, shifting 
uneasily in his seat, “ the general message: 
not the details, of course; we couldn’t allow 
that” His shoulders perceptibly shivered. 

“ Most certainly not.” Crump contemptu¬ 
ously rejected the suggestion. “ The public 
will pay for the details, as you choose to call 
them.” 

Denning deferentially inclined his head. 
This interview was something altogether out¬ 
side his experience; in the light of it he could 
hardly believe that he was still Mr. Reginald 
90 


THE WORM TURNS 


Denning, the advertisement director of the 
Morning Star and the directing genius which 
secured for the paper an advertisement rev¬ 
enue that ran into seven figures per annum. 
. . . But his visitor, in hard, clear tones was 
continuing his exposition. 

“ I am given to understand,” said Crump, 
with a slight forward movement of the head, 
“ that the Morning Star is a great organ of 
public opinion, and that it confers on the 
advertisements it carries something of its own 
dignity and prestige.” 

For the first time in his career as advertise¬ 
ment director of the Morning Star Mr. Regi¬ 
nald Denning not merely felt uncomfortable, 
but looked it. This man was taking the words 
out of his own mouth. The Morning Star a 
great organ of public opinion that conferred 
on the advertisements it carried something of 
its own dignity and prestige. . . . During the 
past decade he had given utterance to these 
same words at every important interview, and 
all his interviews were important, and every 
week he had several such interviews. This 
echo of his own voice was not merely sacri¬ 
legious; it was uncanny; and he cast upon 
Crump a piercing glance which would have 
gone clean through any ordinary man. A 
most startling explanation suggested itself to 
him, and he looked again, and looked hard. 

91 


GIRL OR BOY 

But no, it was unbelievable, unthinkable, and 
he rejected the fantastic notion. Why on 
earth this resplendent personage before him 
had somehow brought to his mind the un¬ 
kempt creature he had lately dismissed was 
more than he could fathom. Crump, mean¬ 
while, consulted his opulent gold watch and 
assumed a thoughtful expression. Had he 
been less sure of himself he might have 
doubted the wisdom of his last remark; but he 
revelled in this shameless feast of impudence; 
it salved the wounds of years. 

“ Well,” he murmured with extreme pleas¬ 
antness, “ how much do you charge for one 
whole-page advertisement?” 

“ One thousand guineas,” replied Denning. 
He placed one finger over the push of an 
electric bell fitted to the side table on his left 
hand. Crump knew this ruse of old. It rarely 
failed to fascinate a visitor: the bell would 
inevitably ring, and seal the bargain. The 
familiar words were already on Denning’s 
lips—“ Smith, please see that a page is re¬ 
served . . .” But the bell did not sound; 
the secretary did not appear; and Denning’s 
finger became cramped in its position of sus¬ 
pense. There was something wrong; the spell 
refused to work that morning; and Denning 
admitted defeat by removing his poised finger. 

“ And other spaces,” murmured Crump, 


92 


THE WORM TURNS 


“ pro rata, if that’s the right way of putting 
it?” 

“ We reckon other spaces in inches,” said 
Denning, a little petulantly. “ Five and six 
pounds an inch, according to position.” 

“ How very interesting!” Crump leaned 
towards the table; rested the fingers of one 
hand on the edge of it, and lowering his voice 
inquired: 

“ And how much, Mr. Denning, per line?” 

Denning got up from his chair, savagely 
exercised his elbow muscles in the telescopic 
attachment to his telephone, very nearly 
choked under the sense of his outraged dig¬ 
nity, and announced: 

“ I think, Mr. Marcus Faithful, you have 
come to the wrong department. You require 
the Smalls.” Denning pronounced the last 
word with a withering contempt for the de¬ 
partment in question, for his visitor in par¬ 
ticular, and for the world in general. 

“ I assure you,” snorted Crump, “ that I 
require nothing of the sort. I merely asked 
the price out of curiosity and for the purpose 
of comparison. I require a page; several 
pages, in fact. Of course, if you prefer not 
to sell them ...” 

Denning lifted his hand in apologetic re¬ 
monstrance and resumed his seat, and sighed. 
After all, he reflected, one must be prepared 

93 


GIRL OR BOY 

to put up with a good deal with several thou¬ 
sand pounds at stake. He looked across at 
Crump and bowed his thanks. 

“ And the first insertion is to appear?” 

“ Immediately.” 

“ And who will supply the copy—the mat¬ 
ter for the advertisement, if you understand 
me, Mr. Faithful?” 

“ I think I understand you,” said Crump 
grimly. “I propose to supply it myself. I 
have been studying modern advertising,” he 
went on, “ and I have come to the conclusion 
that its keynote is mother, or baby, or both. 
Better both. And this is where you can help 
me, Mr. Denning.” 

“ This department of the Morning Star is 
at your service, Mr. Faithful.” 

“ Thank you,” said Crump, grateful for the 
interruption. He suddenly realised that, in 
his rising enthusiasm, he had grown rather 
careless in his manner of speech; but the lapse 
had passed unnoticed, and he emphasised that 
professional inflection in his voice which he 
had acquired with remarkable aptitude. 

“ What I want,” he continued, “ is an illus¬ 
tration; I want a drawing of a beautiful young 
mother; she must be as young and as beauti¬ 
ful as all women believe themselves to be, or, 
when the worst has come to the worst, as they 
94 


THE WORM TURNS 


would wish to be. Furthermore, she must be 
in delightful negligee, and the more so the 
better. But I need hardly stress this particu¬ 
lar essential of modern advertising.” 

“ You may be right,” murmured Denning. 
“ I can’t say that I ever look at an advertise¬ 
ment myself. I sell space—the land, so to 
speak: what my clients choose to erect upon 
it is their concern, not mine.” Denning, it 
will be observed, was one of those superior 
people who never read advertisements. “ And 
then?” 

“ I want the introduction of two babies into 
this drawing, boy and girl, in the earliest 
stages of infancy, and little darlings, both of 
them; and I want the mother’s gaze to be 
fixed on both of them, and the artist must 
make it obvious that she is in a sort of quan¬ 
dary. In brief, a human picture, with a heart- 
throb; and underneath, in bold script, with a 
vast query at the end of it, the arresting 
caption—‘ Which will it heV I think you 
will agree that that conveys my message—at 
a glance.” 

“ Perfectly, Mr. Faithful. You exhibit 
quite a flair for advertising, if I may say 
so.” 

“ I have always felt interested in the sub¬ 
ject.” Crump laughed; he thought of the 

95 


GIRL OR BOY 

late Mr. Crump, late of the Morning Star, 
and laughed again. Denning hardly knew 
whether this hilarity was intended to be 
offensive, and said sharply: 

“ And what do you propose to put in the 
body of the advertisement, Mr. Faithful?” 

“ If you will call in your secretary I will 
dictate the matter.” 

Denning touched his bell-push and his 
secretary appeared. 

“ Dictation, Smith,” he mumbled, gave a 
signal to Crump, and walked to the window. 
This unorthodox method of procedure had 
entirely removed his appetite for lunch; he 
felt that Mr. Reginald Denning had not lived 
up to his reputation that morning, and re¬ 
solved that, as soon as the interview was over, 
he would get into a taxi and be taken to his 
club, where he knew he would receive the 
homage that was due to him. He stole a 
glance at his visitor. Crump was leaning back 
in his chair; his hands were folded, and his 
eyes were looking down some infinite vista of 
thought. His parted lips revealed a perfect 
set of teeth. They were false, of course, but 
the best Paris could offer him. 

“ Right,” he said to Denning’s secretary. 
“ Take this down.” The secretary, notebook 
in hand, stood like some automaton, waiting 
to be wound up. 

9c 


THE WORM TURNS 


“ ‘ Deep down/ ” recited Crump, “ ‘ deep 
down in the heart of every mother-to-be there 
reside those feelings of hope, of dread, of 
expectancy, which may all be summed in that 
one poignant phrase, Which will it he? But, 
be she queen or beggar-maid, she can only 
await Nature’s own unfettered, capricious 
decision. 

“ ‘ Truly an amazing position! In the 
general conduct of our affairs we are able to 
proceed with deliberation, with knowledge, 
with certitude; only in this, the supreme effort 
and purpose of our lives, do we proceed 
blindly, ignorantly. 

“ ‘ But there is no ill in life which has not 
its remedy, and Mr. Marcus Faithful is proud 
to announce that to him has fallen the honour 
of conferring upon humanity the knowledge 
it craves. If for the future you would relieve 
your mind of that perplexity and doubt which 
is both mentally and physically exhausting, 
consult Mr. Marcus Faithful at the address 
given below.’ Thank you,” added Crump to 
the secretary, whose face was as vacant as the 
remaining pages in his notebook. “ That’s 
my message,” he went on, turning to Denning, 
“ and it just about coincides with my idea of 
a good advertisement: the facts plainly stated. 
You agree?” 


97 


GIRL OR BOY 

Denning at last turned away from the win¬ 
dow, nervously clutching the lapels of his coat, 
and Crump, for the first time in his life, felt 
sorry for the man. Denning’s lips were stut¬ 
tering—in silence; he stroked his quivering 
chin, stole a glance at Crump, and looked out 
of the window again. 

“You agree?” Crump’s voice was insis¬ 
tent, almost intimidatory. 

“ But have you an address?” stammered 
Denning, trying to gain time. 

“ My secretary is now concluding negotia¬ 
tions for a suite of rooms and offices in the 
West End. I expect to take possession 
immediately.” 

Denning sat down at his table, firmly 
gripped the arms of his chair, and said, with 
the desperation of a drowning man: 

“ I’m sorry, Mr. Faithful. I shall have to 
refuse the offer of your advertising.” He 
gulped at the thought of the lost pages, the 
lost thousands of advertisement revenue; but 
went on steadily: “ Our readers would never 
stand for it.” He buried his chin in his 
handsome black bow, thoughtfully stroked 
his lower lip with the thumb-nail of his left 
hand, and said once more, with a sigh, “ Yes, 
I’m sorry.” 

Crump leapt from his chair. 

98 


THE WORM TURNS 


“ Very well, Mr. Denning. If the Morning 
Star refuses to associate itself with this great 
movement for the betterment and the happi¬ 
ness of humanity I must go elsewhere. Per¬ 
haps you will allow me to have a copy of the 
matter I dictated. The Morning Sun -” 

Crump broke off in sheer fright. Denning 
looked as though he were going to have a 
stroke of the palsy. 

“ I know, of course,” continued Crump, 
with an amiable ferocity, “ that its circulation 
is smaller. On the other hand, it is more than 
likely to go up when I put in an appearance 
in its pages.” 

Denning closed his eyes and put his hand 
over his brow; only the distant rumbling of 
street traffic broke the silence of the room. 
Crump moved over towards Denning. 

“ Sorry, old man,” he whispered, and patted 
him on the back. This, perhaps, was Crump’s 
most considerable achievement to date. Den¬ 
ning slowly returned to life. 

“ I will, if I may, change my mind, Mr. 
Faithful.” He paused; in all his life he had 
never felt so weak and ill; whatever he decided 
to do he saw no way of escape from endless 
worry and anxiety. Suddenly his mind sprang 
to attention; he looked alertly at Crump. 

“ And about payment, Mr. Faithful?” 


99 



GIRL OR BOY 

“ You will render your account at the end 
of the month, I presume.” 

“ In such circumstances as these,” faltered 
Denning, “ it is our custom to render a pro 
jorma invoice. A banker’s reference would 
do as well—whichever you prefer.” 

“ My dear sir,” ejaculated Crump, “ your 
effrontery amazes me. That I, Marcus Faith¬ 
ful, should be asked to guarantee the paltry 
sum involved in the taking of one miserable 
page in your unworthy rag. I hope to find 
that the Morning Sun is at least controlled by 
gentlemen. Good morning.” 

Denning rose wearily from his chair; the 
crisis of indecision through which he had been 
passing had left him impervious to Crump’s 
malicious attack, and now that his mind was 
made up he announced quietly: 

“ I cannot afford not to risk anything. You 
shall have a proof of the advertisement within 
the next twenty-four hours.” 

Crump bowed; he was gratified; he was 
aglow; he felt that his enterprise was now on 
a sure foundation. The Morning Star , in de¬ 
fiance of reason, did in some mysterious way 
confer a certain dignity and prestige upon its 
advertisers; and with this implied backing 
Crump knew that he was safe—for the next 
nine or ten months. He had triumphed, and 
100 


THE WORM TURNS 


he could afford to be generous; he held out 
his hand. 

“ Mr. Faithful?” 

The voice was still Denning’s, but in a flash 
the man had changed into something more 
warm, more human. Despite the glamour of 
his attire and the suavity of his manner he was 
now just an ordinary human being, reduced 
to the general common multiple of the human 
race. 

“ Yes?” Crump prepared himself for some 
confidential disclosure. 

“ My wife, you know—though, of course, 
you don’t know—has been a trifle unlucky. 
Three girls, all in a row, so to speak. She has 
set her heart on a fine boy, and naturally, 
as a father-” 

“ I understand, perfectly,” interjected 
Crump. He was genuinely affected; even a 
little shocked. Denning, so long the lordly 
occupant of an icy pedestal, was now almost 
grovelling at his feet. ... It was more than 
upsetting: it was positively indecent. Crump 
had revenged himself too well. 

“ Anything I can do, at any time,” he mum¬ 
bled, and made a hasty exit. The boy in the 
lift was munching an apple, the unconsumed 
portion of which, on Crump’s approach, he 
stuffed into his pocket, and nearly choked 

101 



GIRL OR BOY 


himself in an effort to get rid of the remain¬ 
der. Crump watched these operations with 
a sympathetic eye. He was beginning to 
wonder whether he, too, had not bitten off 
rather more than he could hope to chew. 


102 


CHAPTER IX 
ANNETTE FAY 

A NNETTE FAY occupied three rooms 
on the first floor of a house in Great 
Russell Street, within a stone’s throw of the 
Princes Theatre. It was a curious abode for 
an ostensibly young unmarried woman. The 
ground floor of this once-private dwelling- 
house had been taken over by a carpenter, 
who had converted it into a workshop for the 
production of artistic pieces of furniture, and 
the sickly odour of glue often pervaded the 
lower regions of the house. On the original 
drawing-room door, that gave access to his 
workshop, he had nailed up a piece of board 
roughly inscribed “ The Artistic Furnishing 
Company, Inquire Within.” It did not appear 
to be a very prosperous concern, for the Com¬ 
pany was only able to employ one man, and 
that the proprietor. At the other end of the 
bare, unfurnished hall, on the wall beside the 
foot of the staircase, there appeared a second 
notice, neatly painted on the faded crimson 
wallpaper, “ Annette Fay y Please Ring the 
Bell only the bell did not appear to have 
survived the usage of those who had responded 
to this invitation: there dangled from a tri¬ 
angular fixture at the top of the wall only a 
broken length of chain. But one other sign 
of human habitation remained: a piece of 

103 


GIRL OR BOY 


frayed red carpet still covered the steep stair¬ 
case, which turned sharply at the top to give 
access to the rooms on the first floor. A 
second staircase led from this landing, but a 
board had been nailed across the foot of it, 
effectively barring admission. Whether the 
second-floor rooms were out of occupation 
because the roof leaked badly, or whether this 
ban had been placed upon them because of 
some horrible drama that had been enacted 
within these walls, Annette Fay never knew; 
she was not the sort of person whose curiosity 
was easily aroused to no useful purpose. All 
such forms of idle speculation she left to the 
dairyman next door, to the fruiterer over the 
way, and the grocer a little further down the 
rather dingy and dismal street; and she herself 
gave them ample material upon which they 
could exercise their inquisitive minds. That 
she was a spinster they had no cause to doubt; 
that she was an artist of sorts they inferred; 
that she knew how to keep house frugally and 
well they knew from personal experience. If 
she did not pay her bills with a weekly regu¬ 
larity they were not perturbed; the money 
always was forthcoming, and where it came 
from was no concern of theirs. Their sus¬ 
picions on this point were perfectly well 
founded. Indeed, Annette Fay had lost her 
virtue, in various directions, on innumerable 
104 


ANNETTE FAY 


occasions; but no one to look at her would 
have guessed that this was her manner of life. 

Nor was it, considered from any but a 
superficial point of view. She was unable to 
read into the sex act any religious or moral 
significance; to her it was a negligible adven¬ 
ture, and wearisome rather than distasteful. 
She had to live, somehow or other, and it was 
in this direction that she had discovered the 
easiest solution of her difficulties. Her mind, 
and to a lesser degree her life, was still her 
own; and this was consolation enough, through 
all the years of waiting. Her day of deliver¬ 
ance would come, she knew, when she would 
break away from London and see something 
of the world and start life afresh in some other 
country; even settle down, with a man, for 
good; and she never ceased to look forward to 
such a unique experience. Men in general she 
loathed; she only knew them in one aspect; 
and she hugged the thought of marriage, re¬ 
spectability, tranquillity, and the thought of 
the enduring happiness that these might bring. 
How many years had elapsed since she had 
left her home in the country she did not care 
to think. She had come to London, with a girl 
friend, to study art, and had failed to make 
good. Her friend, who had shared these same 
rooms with her, had suddenly forsaken her 
studies and married an overseas Englishman; 

105 


GIRL OR BOY 


their correspondence had faltered, and then 
closed for ever. Her parents had died, leaving 
her little or no money; her friends in the 
country no longer approved of her; she was 
alone in the world; and she was not now the 
sort of person who could make friends. And 
as for marriage! 

But no man had ever wanted to marry her. 
Men had admired her and loved her, in their 
own way; but none of them had seemed to 
want to marry a girl who was, so to speak, 
suspended in vacuo. Had she displayed her 
charms behind the subtile barriers of a home 
circle; had the mere existence of parents and 
brothers and sisters placed obstacles in the 
way of her more fond adorers; had she been 
in a position to refuse their advances until she 
was well and truly married, she would long 
ago have disappeared from the shabby pre¬ 
cincts of Great Russell Street. But no, how¬ 
ever much they liked her, she was not the sort 
of person they could venture to marry; she 
had no background, no props; she existed in a 
void; she was destitute of the paraphernalia 
of the prospective bride—in fine, she was not 
quite respectable. And what was beauty, and 
charm of mind, for the purpose of marriage, 
if men did not quite respect her? Nothing 
at all, so Annette Fay had long ago decided. 

And she still wanted money, badly. Money, 
106 


ANNETTE FAY 


and quantities of it, was her only hope of 
salvation—in the purely material sense of the 
word. Her clothes absorbed vast sums; the 
rent was always a nuisance; and there was 
always a certain amount of entertaining to be 
done. . . . Drink was a horribly expensive 
item in her weekly budget; and she never 
really got to like the stuff herself! When she 
was alone at night there was nothing she 
enjoyed more than a steaming cup of cocoa, 
made with milk and lusciously sugared. Had 
any of her men acquaintances come upon her 
in these moments of contentment and quie¬ 
tude they would have realised, with something 
of a shock, that Annette Fay, a glittering 
creature of gay plumage, was, after all, ex¬ 
ceedingly domesticated. 

To-night—it was in the first week of the 
great Crump craze—she was alone. She had 
done a certain amount of clearing up in the 
tiny kitchen-scullery. Every afternoon a char¬ 
woman came in for a couple of hours and 
generally cleaned and tidied the flat; and one 
morning a week—whichever happened to be 
convenient to Annette—she came early and 
turned the place inside out; this is to say, 
she scrubbed the floors, washed the paint, 
shook the cushions, and went for the carpets 
with a strong bass broom. Mrs. Meek had 
formed the habit of rejoicing in these good 

107 


GIRL OR BOY 


works, and she had a heart as large as her 
body; the singleness of her devotion to her 
mistress was a constant source of exasperation 
to her friends the dairyman, the fruiterer, and 
the grocer, who were for ever pumping her 
for information concerning her mysterious 
mistress. 

Mrs. Meek never quite knew what to make 
of the sitting-room. It was something of a 
study, for there were low shelves of books all 
around the walls; and something of a studio, 
for the artists’ materials—as Mrs. Meek had 
learned to call them from a long acquaintance 
with a shopkeeper opposite—were invariably, 
from her own point of view, the one untidy 
feature of the room; and, too, it was some¬ 
thing of a music-room: in one dim corner of 
the room there stood a baby grand, usually 
well strewn with copies of modern songs. 
For Annette had a voice, a thrilling soprano 
voice, which she had come cynically to regard 
as part of her stock-in-trade; but often when 
Mrs. Meek, as she herself put it, was having 
a go at the bedroom, Annette would sing for 
her own enjoyment, and Mrs. Meek would 
pause in her strenuous pursuit of London’s 
smoke, dust and dirt fiends and plaintively 
wonder why her young lady never did get 
married. . . . Upon the furnishing of her bed¬ 
room and the narrow dressing-room that led 
108 


ANNETTE FAY 


out of it Annette had expended more money 
than she could rightly afford and all the care 
and artistry of which she was capable. That 
bedroom was a little dream of rest and ele¬ 
gance, set in the vulgar maelstrom of London 
life; and never, because of her, and in spite of 
her, did it seem to lose its chastity. Annette 
was proud of this room; through everything it 
remained her own, hers inviolably; it subdued 
the stranger; none had ever taken from it its 
quality of refinement; the men who entered 
it were but shadows on the walls, brief and 
evanescent—come to-night, gone to-morrow; 
and Annette too at these times was little more 
than a shadow of her real self. She went 
through with her part coolly, deliberately, and 
then, when the business was over and done 
with, resumed the garment of her own soul. 

But to-night Annette was unusually de¬ 
pressed; she could take no pleasure in her 
songs or in her books, nor keep up the sorriest 
of her pretences, and the oldest, that of paint¬ 
ing, the rock on which her life had split. She 
had just finished with her latest liaison: she 
had sent the man out of her life as swiftly as 
she had allowed him to enter it: not that he 
had disgusted her more than the rest, but be¬ 
cause she had suddenly realised that she was 
losing grip on herself; she felt that she was 
sinking to the level of that class to which 

109 


GIRL OR BOY 

superficially, she belonged. She rebelled at 
the thought; she.refused to give in. During 
these past few years she had managed to save 
—from a secret drawer in her dressing-table 
she extracted her bank-book—a little more 
than three hundred and fifty pounds. Not 
enough to start life anew! And if she broke 
away, and had no luck abroad, what would she 
do when she came to the end of these re¬ 
sources? Sell her beauty again: she had noth¬ 
ing else to sell. And even her beauty . . . She 
went up to the mirror of her wardrobe. Her 
cheeks had still the flush of youth; and the 
curve of her chin from the mouth to the throat 
was still firm and smooth; and there was still a 
gleam in her hair and a light in her eyes. . . . 
Oh yes, she was still desirable, still able to set 
men’s hearts aflame; but the day would come. 
. . . And in the past she had never held her¬ 
self cheap; the price she set upon herself had 
kept off the common herd; she had, in her 
way, been eclectic in her dealings with men; 
her beauty had enabled her to maintain a 
standard; but if this went the standard would 
go with it, and she shuddered at the thought. 
Yes, she must have money, loads of it. . . . 
One good haul would see her through. 

She picked up a copy of the Morning Star; 
it contained the usual Marcus Faithful adver¬ 
tisement, and she smiled with her lips, half- 
110 


ANNETTE FAY 


contemptuously, half-pityingly. On all ques¬ 
tions of sex she had a profound contempt for 
women, and the way in which they had fallen 
for Marcus Faithful nauseated her. They had 
made him the sensation of the hour. All sorts 
of rumours as to the bonds of secrecy he im¬ 
posed upon all who consulted him had reached 
her; and the women revelled in their bonds. 
The world was full of whispers, but never a 
word was spoken, in public at least, of all that 
passed behind the double green-baize doors of 
Mr. Marcus Faithful’s consulting-room. The 
women believed in him because, she told her¬ 
self, they wanted to believe in him; he was 
too good not to be true; he was just about the 
most glorious thing that had ever happened: 
more than a nine days’ wonder, much more 
than that. . . . He was something new in the 
way of sensations; and even the more scepti¬ 
cal had to agree that he presented an impres¬ 
sive front to the world. In appearance he was 
the most immaculate male in London; at least 
ten of London’s leading tailors had privately 
claimed the honour of having supplied his 
clothes. When these reports became public 
Marcus Faithful contemptuously denied them. 
His clothes, he stated in an interview, had all 
of them been made in Paris. Parisians, he 
claimed, were the finest tailors on earth. This 
pronouncement was reported in the leading 

111 


GIRL OR BOY 

journals throughout the kingdom within nine 
hours; the smaller journals published it a 
few hours later; the leading articles in these 
various journals were followed up by similar 
articles in the weeklies and the Sunday press; 
and the organ of the tailoring trade published 
a special supplement that contained expres¬ 
sions of opinion on this topic of the day from 
the Prime Minister downwards. In fact, 
whenever Mr. Marcus Faithful could be per¬ 
suaded to open his mouth to a reporter he 
invariably gave utterance to a phrase of four 
or six words which could be counted upon to 
bring forth a harvest of several million. 
Newspaper proprietors issued strict instruc¬ 
tions that no edition was to go out without 
some mention of Marcus Faithful’s activities, 
or his sayings, or his movements. The re¬ 
porters detailed for duty outside the Hotel 
Grand Riche had to supply daily a column of 
matter concerning the great man, or suffer 
instant and ignominious dismissal. Within a 
week Marcus Faithful had become not merely 
the craze but the fetish of the hour. 

Annette’s eyes continued to dwell on Marcus 
Faithful’s current advertisement. It differed 
very little from those that had preceded it. 
There was one phrase in particular with which 
Annette was perfectly familiar; indeed, it 
would be true to say that there was not a man 
112 


ANNETTE FAY 


or woman in the country who could not have 
recited it from memory; it had become as 
much a part of the literature of the English 
tongue as the more famous passages in Shake¬ 
speare, Milton, and the Bible. “ Deep down 
in the heart of every mother-to-be there reside 
those feelings of hope, of dread, of expectancy, 
which may all be summed in that one poignant 
phrase, Which will it he? But, be she queen 
or beggar-maid, she can only await Nature’s 
own unfettered, capricious decision. . . .” 
After the first few advertisements this phrase 
appeared in italics in a desert of white space, 
with the result that it took on the character 
of an immemorial utterance of some divine 
authority who, for all time, had revealed the 
innermost longings of the human heart. 

Annette tossed the newspaper to the ground 
and bent over her gas fire. She was not cold, 
but she lacked the warmth of companionship. 
She smiled rather wearily, wistfully. She 
could not get the thought of this man out of 
her head, and again took up the paper and 
glanced at the address given at the foot of the 
advertisement: “ Savoy Mansions, W.l ”— 
that was all. She turned to the picture page 
of the Morning Star. For once in a way it did 
not contain a photograph of Mr. Marcus 
Faithful; but she was able to conjure up a 
perfectly clear recollection of his features: 

113 


GIRL OR BOY 

certainly not a handsome man, nor a particu¬ 
larly young one; but a magnificent head of 
hair—the flowing mane with which one 
associates all great men of the past—a finely 
masculine moustache, good teeth, a firm chin. 
... In fine, a solid man, and so beautifully 
groomed, and such lots of money! Annette 
shrugged her shoulders. This was high game; 
but she must do something quickly, or go 
under. It was all to the good that he was not 
a particularly young man; he would be more 
easily handled. Her face was hard now, and 
her beauty cruel. Annette, after all, had not 
come through her experience of life quite 
unscathed; and although she knew it not, at 
such times as these she bore the mark of her 
profession. As she prepared for bed she 
critically examined her smooth white limbs, 
and shrugged her shoulders again. 

Seven miles away, at number 11 Maze Hill 
Road, Greenwich, Mr. Crump, once more at 
home, on the second of his flying visits from 
Paris, was winding up the formidable marble 
clock on the imitation marble mantel-shelf. 
His wife was kneeling on the hearth-rug gin¬ 
gerly removing to one side of the grate a par¬ 
tially unburned piece of coal. Mr. Crump’s 
head of hair was in its customary state of 
disorder; the only sign of a moustache was a 
114 


ANNETTE FAY 


bristly black undergrowth round his upper lip; 
his baggy trousers looked as if they might 
fall off at any moment and submerge his enor¬ 
mous and venerable carpet slippers. Mrs. 
Crump, still on her knees, gravely inspected 
her husband’s trousers at close quarters. 

“ David,” she protested, pulling herself up 
by his arm, “ you must let me try and put a 
crease in those trousers of yours. If only you 
would take a little more care of your personal 
appearance you wouldn’t know yourself.” 

“ Perhaps I shouldn’t,” murmured Mr. 
Crump with a very deep sigh. 


115 


CHAPTER X 
SAVOY MANSIONS 

I N a large sombre room on the first floor 
of the Savoy Mansions, overlooking the 
Thames and the Strand, Mr. Marcus Faithful 
held consultations between the hours of ten 
and four, with an hour for lunch. Still’s choice 
of a room was admirably suited to Crump’s 
purpose. Three rooms occupied one side of 
the corridor to which the lift gave access, and 
at either end of this corridor there was a larger 
room. The one to the left was the chief 
apartment, and here, five hours out of every 
twenty-four, Crump conducted his seances. 
Still occupied an adjoining room, which served 
the purpose of an ante-chamber; the two 
rooms were provided with inter-communicat¬ 
ing doors; they were also on the house tele¬ 
phone which Still had thoughtfully installed. 
Still was a man who believed in systemisation. 
He had labelled the three rooms alongside the 
corridor: the first, “Appointments Only ”; the 
second, “Late for Appointment ”; and the 
third, “Not by Appointment .” He was re¬ 
sponsible for keeping Crump’s diary of engage¬ 
ments, and in the regulation of it he showed 
neither ceremony nor favour. If one of 
Crump’s visitors were late for an appointment 
she was forthwith conducted to the appropri¬ 
ate apartment, and there left to cool her head 
116 


SAVOY MANSIONS 


and her heels until the remissness of a later 
visitor presented her with a second chance. In 
the unusual event of this second chamber 
being quite empty, Still threw open the door 
of the third, dispassionately consulted the 
attendance sheet, and called out the name of 
the earliest arrival. This disciplinary system, 
by ensuring that not a moment of Crump’s 
time was ever wasted, considerably enhanced 
the profits of the business. The second large 
room at the other end of the corridor was only 
utilised by Still in times of special stress, and 
the overflow crowd that gathered in it never 
caused him much concern. When he was com¬ 
pelled to conduct callers into it he summarily 
informed them that they would do well to 
abandon all hope for the day, and at four 
o’clock no less summarily escorted them to the 
lift. This rather high-handed treatment, as 
Still did not fail to note, invariably resulted in 
their arriving dead on time the following morn¬ 
ing. And they respected Still because he re¬ 
fused to succumb to their blandishments and 
cajolements; even the eloquent rustling of 
bank-notes did not turn his head; he set his 
face and preserved a cerberean integrity 
against every suggestion of bribery or corrup¬ 
tion, and not a woman was ever allowed to 
enter the inner chamber of the tabernacle 
out of her turn. Before a week had elapsed 

117 


GIRL OR BOY 

Still’s reputation in London was second only 
to his master’s. 

The actual payment of the consultation fees 
was a delicate matter which Still had no less 
delicately adjusted. To all callers, whether 
by appointment or otherwise, he handed an 
unaddressed sealed envelope, which contained 
a straightforward intimation to the effect that, 
although Mr. Marcus Faithful’s first interest 
in life was to endow humanity at large with 
the knowledge of his beneficent discovery, he 
nevertheless found it necessary to proceed with 
discretion and discrimination. For this reason, 
and no other, he charged a small fee for each 
consultation. This fee, however, he was pre¬ 
pared to adjust according to a client’s means. 
. . . But this intimation was merely a pre¬ 
cautionary measure. Still had established a 
system whereby he was enabled to estimate 
pretty accurately the amount of the fee he 
could safely demand. At the conclusion of 
every interview Crump rang through to him on 
the house telephone. One long buzz meant 
five guineas—the minimum fee; a short buzz 
meant one guinea, so that one long buzz and 
two short meant seven guineas; and so on. 
The system, of course, was not perfect, be¬ 
cause its success depended solely on Crump’s 
ability to gauge the worldly prosperity of his 
visitors; but as time went on he developed con- 
118 


SAVOY MANSIONS 


siderably his method of observation. Shoes 
and stockings he found to be excellent criteria, 
and, of course, he usually had occasion to ask 
certain questions regarding a visitor’s manner 
of life, the answers to which gave him some 
indication as to her pecuniary resources. Still 
was no less observant, and between them their 
calculations were never far wrong. “ The fee, 
madam,” Still would announce, “ is ten guin¬ 
eas,” and whatever the amount happened to 
be it was invariably paid without a murmur. 
In general, the visitor was too overwrought to 
take particular note of the number of guineas 
demanded. The assessment was advanced by 
at least twenty-five per cent, for all those 
who produced cheque-books; and Still never 
ceased to marvel that these same women, who 
so carelessly paid away their money, would 
put forth heroic exertions to save themselves 
a few shillings at sale times. 

It was towards the end of the second week 
of the establishment of the Marcus Faithful 
cult that Annette Fay paid her first visit to 
Savoy Mansions. She was demurely but 
beautifully and expensively dressed; neither 
Crump nor Still would have had the slightest 
hesitation in marking her down for the maxi¬ 
mum fee. It was about half-past three in the 
afternoon, and she had deliberately called at 
this late hour in the expectation that she would 

119 


GIRL OR BOY 

miss the main stream of visitors. In this she 
was very much mistaken, and Still, with his 
customary cast-iron resolution, conducted her 
to the overflow waiting-room, both the “Not 
by Appointment ” and “Late for Appoint¬ 
ment ” categories being complete. Annette 
was appalled. Never before in her life had 
she seen so many women herded together and 
in such variety. She recognised the types. 
A few of the women, banded together in one 
corner, w*ere present because a consultation 
with Mr. Marcus Faithful was now the 
fashion; they were quite willing to pay ten 
guineas or so for a ten-minute thrill; but the 
majority looked as if they might be earnest 
seekers after truth: that gleam of hope and 
expectation in their eyes could not immedi¬ 
ately extinguish the weariness of hope de¬ 
ferred, through years of waiting. . . . Annette, 
confident in her own physical charm, rather 
despised these comparatively unattractive 
creatures in their pitiful quest. She calmly 
followed Still out of the room. In the corri¬ 
dor they faced each other, and Still, quite un¬ 
accustomed to such insubordination, rang for 
the lift. Annette lightly touched his arm. 

“ I’m not going yet,” she said; “ not until 
I’ve seen Mr. Marcus Faithful.” 

“ I’m sorry,” said Still, “ but you’ve not 
got the slightest chance this afternoon. Only 
120 


SAVOY MANSIONS 

three more are likely to get in, and they’re all 
of them by appointment.” 

“ Then I shall speak to him as he goes out.” 

Still looked at her, and marked her down at 
twenty guineas or more. Her importunity— 
not less potent because it was silent—put a 
bitter strain upon his integrity. Was she to 
be the first woman he had allowed in out of 
her turn? Were they to stand to lose twenty- 
five guineas? But Still remembered in time 
that he had a reputation to lose and that it 
might pay him, in the end, to maintain it. 

“ I am sorry, madam, but-” 

And Annette walked straight through the 
half-opened door of the ante-room. She was 
the first woman to enter it without Still’s per¬ 
mission. He drew himself up to his full 
height; he looked very neat and fierce in his 
blue serge suit; he contracted his lips and 
then stammered: 

“ This, madam, is unpardonable. I must 
ask you to leave this room at once.” And he 
flung open wide the door. 

Annette sat down, and smiled at him, 
whimsically. Her charm was devastating, and 
she knew it. She meditatively examined her 
stockings, her ankles, her shoes, and flashed 
another glance in his direction. 

“ A very nice room you have,” she mur¬ 
mured. “ Who chose the furniture?” 


121 



GIRL OR BOY 

“ The chair you are about to vacate,” said 
Still, “ belongs to a period when the standard 
of manners was considerably higher than it is 
to-day.” The man was floundering; he knew 
that he had met his match; this woman was of 
a different breed from the neurotic crowd 
which had thronged the Marcus Faithful suite 
in Savoy Mansions. 

“ Mr.-?” 

Into her query she put all the seductiveness 
of a woman, all the invitation of her beauty, 
all the fresh appeal of youth. Still groaned 
inwardly, and did not answer. 

“ You and I,” she said, describing with her 
finger a circle in the air, as it were enticing 
him to enter therein, “ you and I are going to 
meet again. You’d better keep on the right 
side of me, Mr.-?” 

“ What do you mean?” he blurted out, 
again ignoring her query. 

“ You shall see,” she whispered, with a 
forward thrust of the head. “ Ah!” 

There was one long buzz on the house 
telephone, and a second or two later the door 
between the two rooms opened and Crump 
appeared with a woman at his side. 

“ My secretary,” he began, about to repeat 
his usual formula, and stopped dead. He 
recognised the woman in the ante-room; she 
was the woman who had bent over him when 
122 




SAVOY MANSIONS 


he lay on his back in the middle of Piccadilly 
Circus; the woman who had murmured, 
“Poor little man!” the woman of whose 
beauty and fragrance, in that moment of wak¬ 
ing, his eyes and his soul had drunk deep. 
He passed his hand across his forehead, as if 
to free himself of the influence of these hyp¬ 
notic memories, and looked questioningly at 
Still; but Still had turned his attention to the 
previous visitor; he was remarking, without 
any of his customary finesse, “ The fee, 
madam, is five guineas,” and steadily averted 
his eyes from Crump. 

“ Please come in, Mrs.-” He empha¬ 

sised the prefix for Still’s benefit, but no assist¬ 
ance was forthcoming from that quarter, and 
Crump, a little scant of breath, led the way 
into his consultation chamber. Annette fol¬ 
lowed him. She directed a swift glance round 
the room. The heavy curtains at the tall 
windows were only partly drawn; the thick 
pile of the carpet, green like the curtains, 
quenched every sound of movement. The 
huge polished mahogany table that occupied 
the centre of this sombre desert of space bore 
nothing but an immense white blotting-pad, 
on the unsullied surface of which Crump’s 
horn-rimmed spectacles were reposing, face 
downwards. In one dim corner of the room 
there was a handsome glass-fronted bookcase, 

123 



GIRL OR BOY 

filled with certain heavy nameless tomes; the 
panelled walls were destitute of any further 
decoration; and there were only two chairs, 
and one of these Crump occupied. In the 
furnishing of this apartment Still had set out 
to secure the three conditions of privacy, 
silence, and repose; and he had succeeded. 
Even Annette, who did not easily lose her 
sense of self-possession, felt rather subdued 
when Crump gracefully waved her into the 
chair on the other side of the table. 

“ I need not ask why you have come to see 
me,” he began. Now that he was working to 
his ordinary schedule he had regained some¬ 
thing of his own self-possession. Resting his 
elbows on the wide, curving arms of the chair 
he brought up his hands to the level of his 
eyes, where the fingers met tip to tip; and be¬ 
hind this barrier, entrenched in his customary 
professional attitude, a beautiful feeling of 
security possessed him; and he was amazed 
at his own good fortune. That this woman, 
of all women, should have come to consult 
him! He leaned back and gently balanced 
the chair on its two back legs. Gazing upon 
her, he felt that he could blissfully have re¬ 
mained poised in this state of repose for ever. 
If only he had been a few years younger! 
He was shocked at his own thoughts. There 
was Millie to think of. Had he not promised 
124 


SAVOY MANSIONS 


himself that when the time came, when he had 
money in plenty, he would take her away and 
show her all the countries of the world? No 
more aprons and doorstep interviews with the 
tradesmen! No more messing about with the 
fire, when they went to bed, so as to save that 
last bit of unburnt coal! Her life was to be 
one long draught of happiness. . . . This 
woman of Piccadilly Circus had caused him a 
certain amount of spiritual disturbance in the 
past, but he had never felt guilty about it: 
then she was as unattainable as a dream, and 
no less intangible; she might have dwelt on 
another planet for all the chance there was of 
his ever establishing further communication 
with her. And now, in the sombre silence and 
the personal privacy of this, his room, she sat 
before him, breathing the air he breathed, 
almost a suppliant at his feet! He put his 
two thumbs between his teeth, and bit them 
hard, in order to steel himself to the business 
of the interview. He was a little afraid of those 
steadfast eyes; he knew that they were search¬ 
ing him; he felt more and more uncomfort¬ 
able. Here was nothing he could play up to: 
no emotionalism, no feverish expectancy, no 
sexual excitement. Under the examination of 
this woman’s clear and unflinching eyes he 
realised what he had almost forgotten, that 
he was, after all, nothing but a quack. 


125 


GIRL OR BOY 


“ First of all, Mrs.-?” Crump broke 

off appealingly, but still she kept silence. She 
was describing with her finger-tip an imagi¬ 
nary circle on the smooth surface of the table, 
and that finger fascinated him; it seemed to 
be weaving a coil around him, body and soul, 
and he could not shake himself free from its 
sinister bonds. 

“ First of all,” he went on, trying hard to 
remember his usual recitation, “ I need hardly 
point out to you that everything that passes 
between us must be kept absolutely secret. 
For obvious reasons the information I have to 
impart to you cannot be, and must not be, a 
topic for general discussion in the ordinary 
way of conversation. Furthermore this infor¬ 
mation is of such a nature that were it to be 
used by unscrupulous persons great harm to 
the community might easily result; and 
again, great harm might result to individuals 
were there any confusion as to the exact 
nature of my instructions. This is why I 
prefer to impart them myself. I have your 
word of honour, madam?” 

“ You have,” said Annette. “Please go on.” 

Crump picked up his horn-rimmed glasses, 
wiped them with his delicate silk handker¬ 
chief, put them on, stroked his chin, fixed his 
eyes on the white, unsullied surface of his 
blotting-pad, and went on— 

126 



SAVOY MANSIONS 


“ As I have so often said, deep down in the 
heart of every mother-to-be there reside those 
feelings of hope, of dread, of expectancy, 
which may all be summed in that one poig¬ 
nant phrase, Which will it be?” 

“ I want a boy,” she said simply, without 
the slightest trace of emotion or mental ex¬ 
citement. This was all wrong; Crump felt 
that there was something lacking in this 
woman; she was too chill, too remote; she did 
not lean across the table and fix him with a 
hungry stare. . . . 

“ I will be as brief as I can,” he said, 
accepting the implied rebuke. “ How many 
years have you been married?” 

“ Years.” 

Even in this crisis Crump was glad to note 
a suggestion of weariness in her voice. He 
was being foolish, he knew, and he could not 
get Millie out of his mind; but he was a great 
man now; his name was on every woman’s 
lips; nothing was beyond his grasp; even this 
pearl among women. . . . 

“ Mr. Faithful!” 

Another stern rebuke! Crump cursed him¬ 
self for a fool, and asked, with a retaliatory 
note of determination in his voice: 

“ And so far, how many children have you 
had?” 

“ None.” 


127 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ All the better,” said Crump, putting up a 
poor pretence of joviality. “ Now I must ask 
you to give me your very closest attention; 
and please remember that I address you in 
the strictest possible confidence. I suppose 
I may take it that your husband-” 

Crump again broke off. At this point in 
the conversation he could usually count upon 
a certain pretty confusion, some indication of 
embarrassment, in the eyes if not in the cheeks 
of his clients; but here was nothing . . . just 
a patient watchfulness. He rose from his 
chair, carefully set free the crease in his 
trousers, with a firm gesture pulled his coat 
around his collar, and, still gripping the lapels, 
thrust his head well forward and began to 
march up and down the room, resuming his 
discourse in peripatetic fashion. 

Seated alone in the ante-room Still anxiously 
awaited the outcome of this surprising visita¬ 
tion. In one hand he held the volume of which 
he had been conspicuously proud, Crump’s 
Diary of Engagements, the contents of which 
he had now to submit to very heavy revision. 
He cursed the interloper; she was a regular 
vixen, butting in like that. ... It was now 
some time after four, and he had already 
cleared out the various congregations of wait¬ 
ing women—worshippers at the shrine of that 
128 



SAVOY MANSIONS 


old fool on the other side of the door. He had 
early on decided that Crump would never 
have got very far without his aid; he, Still, 
was the controlling genius behind this organ¬ 
isation; Crump was merely the mouthpiece. 
And Still was angry with himself. The woman 
had twisted him round her little finger; and he 
ought to have kicked her out of the room! 
This was the first time he had failed to main¬ 
tain order and discipline in the ranks of the 
disciples. “ Never again!” he muttered to 
himself. “ Never again!” It was a quarter 
past four, and still no ring on the buzzer. 
This creature was breaking all records: 
twenty minutes was Crump’s absolute limit; 
this woman had already had more than half an 
hour. He cocked up his ears. Usually it was 
possible to distinguish a faint rumble of con¬ 
versation from the adjoining room; but at the 
moment he could hear nothing; the room w*as 
quiet as death. He went up to the door and 
put one ear against it: still no sound. Surely 
the woman had not escaped without paying 
her fee! The thought roused him to action 
and he went to the opposite door, opened it, 
and looked down the corridor. There was no 
one about, and none of the usual chatter from 
behind the closed doors; even the electric 
bulbs looked foolish, shining to no particular 
purpose; and in their brilliant silence the 

129 


GIRL OR BOY 

noise from the orchestral Strand seemed miles 
away. He closed the door, and sat down 
again. 

Another five minutes passed, and Still could 
stand it no longer. He tapped on the door of 
Crump’s room: no answer; he opened it. 
Crump sat huddled up in his chair, with his 
head buried in his hands. The magnificence 
and the quality of his attire availed him noth¬ 
ing: he was just a poor little man, beaten, 
cowed. . . . Still rushed up to him. 

“ Where’s that woman?” 

“ Gone,” gasped Crump from the depths 
of his chest. “ Out through the door—straight 
into the corridor.” 

“ But what happened?” Still was examin¬ 
ing his master for any sign of injury. 

“ She said,” replied Crump, speaking very 
slowly and distinctly, “ that I was a rogue and 
an impostor.” 

“ Oh,” murmured Still, throwing out his 
hands; and then, after a pause: “ Once one 
of them starts, the game’s up.” 

“ I know,” groaned Crump, with miserable 

resignation, “ but-” And he pushed the 

huge white blotting-pad towards Still; an 
address in Great Russell Street had been 
scrawled across it. “ She says that I am to 
see her, at once.” 

And Still, who was making a rapid calcula- 
130 



SAVOY MANSIONS 


tion as to their available financial resources, 
whose thoughts were turning to boat trains, 
tickets, luggage, witnessed with suspicion and 
amazement the birth of a smile on Crump’s 
reviving countenance. 


131 


CHAPTER XI 

THE RAPE OF CRUMP 

T HAT evening Annette dined alone in a 
small restaurant at the Tottenham Court 
Road end of Oxford Street. She wanted to 
be alone for several reasons: she wanted to 
be free that evening; she wanted to think out 
her future plan of campaign; and, most of all, 
she wanted to recover from her afternoon’s 
exploit. Now that it was all over she hardly 
dared to believe that she had called the re¬ 
nowned and omnipotent Marcus Faithful a 
rogue and an impostor. She took up her eve¬ 
ning paper. The first headlines that caught 
her eye read, “ Fashionable Women Still 
Throng Savoy Mansions, Mr. Marcus Faith¬ 
ful’s National Mission, Sensational Exten¬ 
sions Predicted.” Annette smiled wanly: 
against this immense barrage in the Press she 
felt very weak and helpless; and yet, she had 
shot her first bolt, and the heavens had not 
fallen; she had called the man a rogue and 
an impostor, and he had denied nothing, but 
just crumpled up in his chair; she had per¬ 
emptorily told him to call on her, and she 
knew that he would come; she expected that 
he would come that same evening. And she 
would be in a position to make her own terms! 
A marvellous turn of events! She glanced 
down at the paper again. Mr. Marcus Faith- 
132 


THE RAPE OF CRUMP 


ful was to take the chair at the anniversary 
dinner of the People’s League of Health and 
Hygiene; there was a suggestion that if the 
Prime Minister wanted to move with the times 
he would do well to include the name of this 
servant of humanity in the next Honours 
List; it was even mooted that one of the 
older Universities would confer a distinction 
upon itself by crowning the life’s labours of 
this savant with the offer of an honorary 
degree. . . . And she had dared to call this 
phenomenon of the hour a rogue and an 
impostor! She shuddered, and called for her 
bill. 

Back in Great Russell Street she changed 
quickly into a blue-and-gold semi-evening 
gown and threw around her gleaming shoul¬ 
ders a silken wrap an old admirer had sent her 
from Bellagio, on the shores of Lake Como. 
She had always treasured this piece of silken 
loveliness for its exotic charm; it appealed to 
her because it came from a land where she 
could live her own life again, once she could 
make good her escape from London and all 
that London meant to her. . . . Even the old 
artistic longings stirred within her whenever 
she flung the shawl about her shoulders and 
saw the long fringe trail down her arms. It 
was a sort of phylactery, and she wore it to¬ 
night because she intended to make one bold 

133 


GIRL OR BOY 

stroke for that freedom which only money 
could buy. And this man had money, and 
would have still more money if, on her own 
terms, she allowed him to go on. Annette 
walked into the sitting-room, with one back¬ 
ward glance to see that all was straight, 
took a cigarette from a wooden box on the 
mantelshelf over the old-fashioned fire-grate, 
and sat down to wait. She felt cosy, warm, 
desirable. 

She had not long to wait. At half-past 
eight she heard the screeching brakes of a taxi 
and the sound of footsteps on the pavement 
below. She peered between the curtains, and 
in the light of the street lamp opposite saw 
that it was indeed the man into whose heart 
she had struck terror that afternoon. Mr. 
Marcus Faithful, this splendid creation of the 
tailor’s art, complete with cloak and opera 
hat! Annette smiled wickedly. This was not 
the first time she had peered between the 
curtains, but never before had she beheld a 
figure quite like this, so perfect in the estima¬ 
tion of the world, so pathetic in her own! 
Once that afternoon she had rent the veil 
behind which the real man was hiding, and 
she would do it again; with her own future 
at stake she would show no mercy. 

He was inside the door now and climbing 
the ill-lighted stairs. She knew that he would 
134 


THE RAPE OF CRUMP 


be wondering what on earth he was coming 
to; he had stopped to examine the entrance 
to the carpenter’s shop; and Annette smiled 
again, more wickedly than ever. He would 
soon be passing from this region of outer 
darkness into the warmth and the light and 
the intimacy of her own room, and the shock 
would dazzle him; many times in the past it 
had dazzled less impressionable creatures. . . . 
There was a knock, a feeble, hesitant knock 
at the door, and Annette flew to it, opened it, 
flung it wide with a gesture of invitation. 

Crump could not have trembled more had 
he found himself standing on the brink of 
hell. The knees inside his perfect trousers 
quaked; the heart behind the white expanse 
of his shirt-front almost ceased to beat; his 
eyes were dazzled by this sudden revelation 
of warmth and light and intimacy, by the bril¬ 
liant apparition of this woman in blue and 
gold. In the past he had dimly apprehended 
the existence of such a woman in such a 
setting as this; but here and now was an 
encounter that he had never thought to experi¬ 
ence; and in Annette’s smile of welcome every 
thought, every memory of Millie was extin¬ 
guished from his mind. 

“ Good evening, Mrs.-” Crump’s greet¬ 

ing was purely mechanical, and Annette took 
immediate steps to shake him out of his 

135 



GIRL OR BOY 

stupor. She grasped his arm and dragged him 
inside the door. 

“ Now,” she said, “ don’t be a silly man. 
You must know that I’m not Mrs. anything 
at all. If you must call me something, call 
me Annette; that’s the only name I have that 
matters.” 

She pulled his cloak off his shoulders and 
snatched the hat out of his folded hands and 
pushed him into a chair by the fire. She 
made a seat for herself on the hearth-rug, and 
with clasped knees.gravely inspected him. 

“ Well, Mr. Marcus Faithful,” she said, 
slowly, ominously. “ And what is your real 
name?” 

Crump tried hard to meet her steady gaze, 
but could not; it not merely abashed him, 
but made him feel naked to the world; he 
moistened his dry lips and furtively glanced 
round the room as if seeking a way of escape; 
and still her eyes dominated him, obsessed 
him. 

“ And what is your real name?” Her voice 
seduced him; he was utterly at the mercy of 
her will. 

“ Crump,” he murmured miserably. 

“ Crump!” she cried. “Crump! What 
a lovely name for you!” She touched him 
lightly on the arm. “ It does suit you so 
well. You’re such a solid, compact little man 
136 


THE RAPE OF CRUMP 


and-” She broke off; she saw that she 

had hurt him. “ Oh, I don’t mean it like 
that,” she went on hurriedly, “ because in a 
way you do look quite impressive in-” 

“ Say it,” said Crump bitterly. “ In these 
clothes, you mean. And what are you going 
to do about it?” 

“ About what?” she asked innocently. 

“ About me.” The words rogue and im¬ 
postor floated through Crump’s mind. He 
was less afraid now than he had been; that 
is, less afraid of exposure; this woman was 
not dangerous in that direction, but in others. 
. . . Crump shivered. He felt the founda¬ 
tions of his morality crumble beneath him; 
he was no longer his own master; and he 
was rather ashamed of himself because, 
although he might resolutely have risen to 
his feet and left the room, he did not even 
attempt to do so. Her mere presence acted 
like an opiate upon his mind and body. 

“ Why,” whispered Annette, “ I’m not 
going to do you any harm. I wouldn’t even 
if I could—and you know I can’t. A woman 
in my position!” And she laughed softly. 
“ No, I want to help you.” And again she 
touched him lightly on the arm. 

“ How?” 

She laughed at the question. 

“ I’ll tell you soon,” she replied. “ First of 

137 



GIRL OR BOY 

all I’m going to ask for information; there 
are several things I want to know.” 

“ Go on,” said Crump stolidly. He was 
enormously happy; he now realised that he 
had found a fellow-conspirator; and under 
her wing he felt at peace with himself and the 
world. He looked around the room. After 
the arid magnificence of the Hotel Grande 
Riche it was good to be in such a room and 
to know once more the warm companionship 
of a woman. And such a woman! His eyes 
rested on Annette, lingered on her; wandered 
from her hair to her lips; followed the course 
of every brown strand of hair across the firm 
cheek; his nostrils sensuously exulted. He 
wondered vaguely what the time was, but he 
did not really care: years seemed to have 
elapsed since he entered that room. The 
noises in the street came from another world. 
Life was a dream; her voice was a dream. 

“ How much money have you taken—since 
you began?” 

The nature of the question rather shocked 
him; but nothing could have destroyed the 
bliss of that heaven in which he dwelt. 

“ I don’t really know,” he replied, hardly 
conscious of what he was saying. “ My 
secretary—Still, you know—looks after the 
money. A few hundred pounds, I should 
think.” Money! What did he care about 
138 


THE RAPE OF CRUMP 


money? Money was no longer the coinage 
of his happiness; he desired nothing but to 
stay where he was, beneath the spell of her 
presence. 

“ And how long do you intend to go on?” 

“ Eight or nine months, I expect,” replied 
Crump. “ As long as we dare.” 

“ You mean yourself and Still?” 

“ I thought you were going to help?” 
Crump smiled like a mischievous child and, 
greatly daring, rested his hand on her shoul¬ 
der. She remained quite still, and her mere 
acquiescence thrilled him. She too was 
thrilled, for a different reason: she had sub¬ 
jugated this man more easily and more speed¬ 
ily than ever she had anticipated, and his 
timorous caress showed her that the process 
was complete. 

“ Of course I’m going to help, and I’ll ex¬ 
plain how—when I’ve made you some coffee.” 

She sprang to her feet, gave the top of his 
head a glancing kiss, and darted from the 
room. Crump never moved in his chair; he 
was momentarily stunned; she had almost 
kissed him! Years and years before Millie 
might have given him just such a caress, but 
never quite like that. . . . During the few 
minutes that he sat before the fire alone a 
picture of Millie—Millie on the doorstep in 
her green apron, Millie with her capacious 

139 


GIRL OR BOY 

string-bag setting sail for the Old Kent Road 
—clearly presented itself in his mind, and 
because it was so clear he half-expected the 
picture to come to life and to hear his wife’s 
voice again; and he trembled at the thought 
of what she might have to say; but the ethe¬ 
real presence vanished on Annette’s return and 
the voice of conscience in Crump was stilled. 
Annette steadied a saucepan over the fire. 

“ I must apologise for the saucepan,” she 
said, “ but I won’t use a percolator because 
you can’t see the coffee simmer in quite the 
same way.” She smiled at him over her shoul¬ 
der, and Crump, who, till quite recently, had 
had his fill of domesticity, thought that this 
was the most affecting domestic scene he had 
ever been privileged to witness. He would 
never have associated Annette with sauce¬ 
pans, but he now saw that she was capable 
of communicating her charm even to this 
highly domestic utensil. He felt perfectly 
happy and at home; she was goddess and 
wife in one. A new confidence was born in 
him; perhaps he was not unattractive in her 
eyes; he might have been a little too modest 
in his estimate of the qualities of his mind, 
apart from any question of his personal 
appearance; and that, he reflected, with a 
downward glance at his trousers, was by no 
means contemptible. He accepted the cup she 
140 


THE RAPE OF CRUMP 


held out to him, and as he did so their fingers 
touched, and there was understanding, there 
was harmony, in that touch. 

“ Now listen,” she said with pretty empha¬ 
sis. “ I am going to be frank about it all. I 
want lots of money. I want it so badly that 
I don’t much care how I get it. I know that I 

can trust you, and if-” She broke off and 

buried her face in her hands. Crump hastily 
placed his cup on the ground and clumsily 
tried to console her; his arms had almost 
closed around her before she recovered her 
self-possession and dabbed her eyes with her 
handkerchief. Crump noticed that there were 
no tears in evidence, and a doubt seized him. 
. . . But she was talking again, gaily, 
enthusiastically. 

“ This is the point, my dear, dear Crump. 
If you go on as you are now you’ll never make 
a great deal of money. Thousands and thou¬ 
sands of pounds, I mean. It’s all a question 
of time. There are only so many hours in 
the day, and you can’t talk to more than one 
person at one and the same time except-” 

“ Except?” Her enthusiasm was con¬ 
tagious; Crump was gripping the arms of his 
chair and leaning far forward. He caught 
the fragrance that hung around her. 

“ Except through the post!” 

“ A sort of mail-order business?” inquired 

141 




GIRL OR BOY 

Crump, lapsing into his old jargon. “ And 
you?” 

“ I shall attend to that side of the show. 
Is there anyone else in the wide world you can 
trust to do it? Is there anyone else in the 
wide world you’d prefer to do it?” She put 
her head on one side and looked up at him 
with an air of mockery. Again a doubt seized 
him; he did not reply. 

“Is there anyone else?” she asked slowly, 
with a hint of menace in her voice. 

“ There is no one,” he murmured weakly; 
and in his heart he knew that he would have 
been helpless to refuse even had he desired 
to do so. She had coiled herself around him; 
she had imposed a spell upon him; she had 
laid him low; and although he dimly under¬ 
stood that she had made him the instrument 
of her own devices he was too far gone to 
care; he was perilously happy and content in 
his own infatuation. “ It means a new series 
of advertisements,” he muttered, still trying 
to act the business man. 

“ Of course,” she said, “ announcing this 
new extension of your work. You put your¬ 
self at the service of every mother in the 
kingdom. Oh, it will be easy!” she cried. 
“ A personal letter to every applicant, a plain 
sealed envelope, and all the rest of it! They’ll 
come in shoals!” 

142 


THE RAPE OF CRUMP 


“Yes, I suppose they would; but this 
wants a bit of thinking out.” Crump felt that 
he occupied a precarious position at the top 
of an acclivity, down which he was likely to 
find himself descending at any moment with 
possibly disastrous results; she was going a 
little too fast for him. “ Yes,” he added, “ it 
wants a good bit of thinking out. I’ll have a 
talk with Still to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow!” she cried. “ No, you must 
decide now! ” She stole a glance at him. Was 
he to slip out of her hands at this last mo¬ 
ment? She rebelled at the thought. She 
had only to hold him for a very few months, 
and she would have money enough; he would 
refuse her nothing, if he did not escape her 
now. She thought rapidly; thrust her chin 
hard against her knees as she sat before the 
crumbling fire. There was one way, she 
knew, of making sure of him; and only one! 
She nerved herself to this final effort. 

“ Well?” she murmured with a bewitching 
sweetness. “ Do you like my room, and me?” 

Crump was abashed; he began to feel that 
a breath of fresh air would do him good. He 
heard a taxi swish past in the street below, 
and rather wished that he had been in it. 
Even her perfume struck him as being some¬ 
what sickly; and altogether it had been an 
overpowering experience. A wonderful expe- 

143 


GIRL OR BOY 

rience, of course; the sort of experience it 
would be very pleasant—and wonderful—to 
survey in retrospect. He visualised his cool, 
tall room at the Hotel Grande Riche; he saw 
the white fold of the linen turned back at 
the head of the bed. With what enormous 
satisfaction he would insinuate his limbs 
between the sheets and afterwards pass in 
procession the events of this amazing day! 
Occasionally he had dreamed of romantic 
episodes with beautiful women, but never 
seriously; and now that he found himself in 
such a situation as his imagination had some¬ 
times depicted, his one thought was to run 
away from it. He prepared to rise. 

“ It’s getting late,” he remarked. “ I’d 
better be going.” 

Annette seized his hands. 

“ It’s not late,” she said, again with a hint 
of menace in her voice. “ Besides, you can’t 
go yet. You haven’t made your decision. I 
want you to promise me-” 

“ I tell you I will go!” broke in Crump, 
rising in spite of her. Appalled by the tempta¬ 
tion that beset him, he took refuge in weak 
anger. “ How dare you attempt to dictate to 
me, young woman!” In his panic he almost 
shouted. 

He flung off her detaining hand; then, 
seeing that she still obstructed his path, he 
144 



THE RAPE OF CRUMP 


seized her angrily by the arms and thrust her 
aside. Her arms were white as cream, seduc¬ 
tively soft, beautifully rounded. The marvel 
of them made him tremble. 

She shrank from his roughness. Her eyes 
pleaded piteously with him. 

“ Please,” she said, with a catch in her 
voice, “ please don’t be angry with me!” 

The change in her unmanned him, so for¬ 
lorn she seemed, so utterly at his mercy. 

“ I’m sure,” he said, still trying to be stern, 
“ I’ve no wish to be angry. But you must be 
a good girl and not provoke me. . . . No, no, 
my dear, don’t cry . . .” 

Bravely she choked back the sob that 
threatened her. The performance did her 
credit. 

“ There, there!” said Crump; and he 
kissed her, tentatively, on the brow. He saw 
that her eyes now shone with gratitude and 
timid admiration. He kissed her again, this 
time with more discrimination and decision. 
After all, she was a helpless little thing. 
Perhaps he need not hurry off so soon. 

Crump opened his eyes, smiled peacefully, 
and shut them again. He had opened them 
in his sleep, and doubtless the face that bent 
over him was all of a part with his dreams. 
Annette lay still, with her eyes wide open. 

145 


GIRL OR BOY 

There was only one other man who had 
opened his eyes just like that. . . . and then 
she remembered. The accident in Piccadilly 
Circus! She turned again to the somnolent 
Crump. 

“ Poor little man!” she whispered to her¬ 
self, and a strange wave of tenderness swept 
through her. 


146 


CHAPTER XII 

MRS. CRUMP INTERVENES 

T HE telegraph-boy clanged the iron gate 
at No. 11, mounted his bicycle, and went 
free-wheeling down Maze Hill Road. Mrs. 
Crump remained on the doorstep, lost in con¬ 
templation of the telegram she had just re¬ 
ceived. On an average she received one once 
a fortnight, and the phraseology was invari¬ 
ably the same: “ Over again. Hope to be 
with you almost as soon as you receive this. 
Love.—D.” Mrs. Crump, in fact, was seri¬ 
ously disturbed in her own mind. She dis¬ 
liked the very short notice he gave her of his 
intended visits; but when she had protested, 
and suggested that he should wire her from 
Paris, he had vaguely excused himself on 
account of the cost: and this in spite of the 
fact that his work in Paris was proving highly 
successful and not unlucrative. When she had 
further, and a little icily, suggested that he 
should avail himself of the telegraphic facili¬ 
ties at Folkestone, or Dover, he had even more 
vaguely excused himself on the score of time. 
No, most emphatically Mrs. Crump did not 
like the look of things. And behind all these 
doubts there was a major mystery: what 
precisely was her husband’s work in Paris? 
He had never made a practice of talking at 
great length about his business activities, usu- 

147 


GIRL OR BOY 

ally because there was so little to tell; but if 
his Paris appointment did indeed register an 
advance in his career she felt that she was 
entitled to hear about it. “ Building up a 
continental connection for the paper ” was not 
good enough; and she had a right to know 
more, and would know more. It was all very 
well for him to talk about taking her there 
and giving her a good time “ one day mean¬ 
while she was condemned to pass a lonely ex¬ 
istence in the drab and dusty precincts of the 
Old Kent Road. She crushed the flimsy tele¬ 
graph form in her hand, flung it to the ground, 
and with her heel rammed it into the soft 
earth in the front garden. And what a gar¬ 
den! About ten feet by eight. She resentfully 
remembered a flowery description he had 
given her of the gardens of the Tuileries. Yes, 
he was seeing the sights of Paris right enough, 
and something more than gardens, perhaps. 
But no, she could not countenance this last 
imputation; deep down in her heart she 
trusted him; and if she did feel a little over¬ 
wrought it was not to be wondered at; this 
continual suspense was enough to wear out 
any woman. She turned to enter the house, 
and as she did so glanced down the hill from 
force of habit, and saw him slowly climbing up 
the pavement. He was coming home, and this 
was her man, and her heart was glad; and in 
148 


MRS. CRUMP INTERVENES 


the joy of the moment her resentment van¬ 
ished, so good it was to set eyes on him again. 
He had not seen her, and she darted inside the 
house because there were one or two things 
she must do. On occasions like this every¬ 
thing had to be just right. . . . 

Yes, Crump was coming home. Painfully 
and slowly and dejectedly he climbed the long 
hill, with his old bag dragging at his side. He 
had a thousand troubles to occupy his mind, 
and this bag was one of them. Mrs. Crump 
had informed him again and again that it was 
a disgrace and that he ought to be ashamed to 
be seen carrying it between London and Paris, 
and as many times Crump had promised to 
replace it. But he had never had the heart to 
do so. That bag, whenever he had occasion 
to don his old garments, helped him to effect 
a liaison with his own soul; it was something 
familiar to grasp; the sheet-anchor of his 
former manner of existence. No, he could not 
see himself climbing to No. 11 with a new 
bag; more than ever he would have felt unlike 
his real self—whichever that might be. He 
had become confused in his mind as to his own 
identity. When he was with Annette he was 
one man; with Millie he was another; and 
which of the two was the more real he could 
not quite decide. He only knew that it irked 
him now to be with Millie; and if he were not 

149 


GIRL OR BOY 

entirely happy in the society of Annette, that 
was not her fault. Business was good; the 
money was rolling in; the name of Marcus 
Faithful was a power in the tiniest hamlet in 
the kingdom; but he was worried, dreadfully 
worried. He mopped his brow. 

There was the lamp-post, still on the pave¬ 
ment outside No. 11. The lamp was alight 
rather earlier than usual to-night. Thank 
heaven he had missed tea; but there was a 
long evening to be got through, somehow. 
Perhaps he could persuade her to come out to 
the pictures; that would save him the bother 
of talking. He couldn’t put up with any more 
cross-examinations; the stores of his invention 
were just about exhausted. Paris! He never 
wanted to hear the word again. He groaned, 
and flung open the gate. 

“ David!” 

“ Millie!” 

The same old greeting, in the same old way. 
He kissed her, and she hugged him. He 
meekly submitted. 

“ Had a good crossing?” 

“ Yes, but I need a wash, badly,” he replied, 
simulating extreme tiredness, and escaped 
upstairs. He walked into the bedroom and 
there the first thing he set eyes on was the 
wardrobe mirror. He scowled at himself. 
He could detect but little change in his out- 
150 


MRS. CRUMP INTERVENES 


ward appearance; his cheeks, certainly, were 
rather fuller, and he looked healthier; but in 
some extraordinary way his limbs seemed to 
conform to the homely ugliness of his old 
clothes. He could have sworn that he cut a 
quite different figure on the first occasion 
he walked into Annette’s room. Annette! 
Downstairs he could hear the clink and the 
jingle of crockery and the old, familiar sizz¬ 
ling of the frying-pan over the gas-ring, and 
an old, familiar odour stole upstairs. Sau¬ 
sages and chipped potatoes, he surmised. 
Millie had resumed her eternal apron, of 
course. Millie, his wife through all these 
years, was cooking his supper, cooking it for 
the ten thousandth time! And now Annette! 
Annette and her dresses, and the warmth and 
the intimacy of that other room in Great Rus¬ 
sell Street; Annette and the strong pressure 
of her arms! His brain went dizzy, and he 
staggered out of the room. 

He washed himself in the tiny bathroom, 
with a chipped green-enamelled bath no larger 
than a good-sized tub. Fancy having to live 
with a thing like that, he reflected bitterly, 
and fiercely rubbed his face with a piece of 
harsh towelling. He noticed the nail on which 
he was accustomed to hang his razor strop. 
Once that nail had been the friendliest thing 
in the bathroom; it now seemed a mean and 

m 


GIRL OR BOY 

beastly little contrivance. It acutely offended 
Crump; the fatuous inconvenience of the 
whole place incensed him; he felt that he 
was reverting to a lower plane of existence. 
He had grown fastidious since first he had set 
out on his adventures; he had fallen in love 
with comfort, elegance, refinement; and these 
qualities were summed in the dainty person 
of Annette. His nerves were on edge. There 
was a shelf just over his head carrying all 
manner of bottles. The majority of them were 
empty. He hated the sight of them. An 
untidy, disreputable crowd! He wanted to 
sweep the lot of them to the ground and to 
stamp on them and shatter them. 

“ David!” 

“ Yes, my dear?” 

“ It’s all ready. Don’t let it get cold!” 

Crump sighed, and went downstairs. Half¬ 
way down he looked over the rail into the 
kitchen and saw Millie put her hands behind 
her back and fling her green apron on to the 
kitchen table in an untidy heap. After a 
moment’s pause he resumed his descent with 
heavy, disconsolate steps. 

“ Sausages and chipped potatoes!” said 
Mildred brightly. “ I thought you’d like to 
come back to them after all the fine food 
you’ve been having in Paris.” 

Paris again! Crump was thankful that his 
152 


MRS. CRUMP INTERVENES 


mouth was already full; he just nodded his 
head, kept his eyes on his plate, and tried 
hard to cultivate an appearance of enthusiasm 
for the greasy compound. 

“ What do they give you to eat in Paris?” 

Crump nearly choked. This inquisition was 
intolerable! He gulped down a huge portion 
of sausage and then frantically sought the 
last remaining chips on his plate. Mildred 
watched him reproachfully. 

“ You might tell me.” 

“ Sausages and chipped potatoes!” gasped 
Crump. It was the only dish on earth he 
could think of at the moment, and he had to 
say something. 

“ Oh!” 

And for the first time their eyes met across 
the table; her ominous monosyllable struck a 
new terror into Crump’s heart and brain. Did 
she suspect anything? Had she— 

“ David! what’s the matter?” Had a ghost 
walked into the room he could not have looked 
more scared. 

“ All this rushing about,” he murmured 
weakly, and took refuge behind a glass of 
water. 

That evening they went to the pictures. He 
rather enjoyed the experience of sitting in the 
ninepenny seats again. In the midst of that 
warm humanity which filled them he felt 

153 


GIRL OR BOY 

curiously at home, and for the moment his 
mind was at rest. Peace and quietude had 
been vouchsafed him for a couple of hours; 
and Millie was well content to sit there with 
him and to munch the chocolates he had 
bought her. He had paid one and sixpence 
for them and she had protested at this unpar¬ 
alleled act of extravagance. One and six¬ 
pence! Crump smiled. 

They prepared for bed at the usual time 
and Crump performed the customary ritual 
with the marble clock over the mantel-shelf. 
He had come through the evening pretty well, 
and had it not been for that gnawing doubt in 
the back of his mind he would have been as 
happy as he could ever hope to be while the 
enormous complications of his life continued. 
But he could not get the recollection of that 
incident at supper out of his mind, and as the 
evening had drawn to its close he had grown 
more and more desperate. The doubt and the 
anxiety were killing him. 

“ Millie,” he said suddenly. “ I must 
write a letter before I get to bed. You run 
along.” 

She put up her mouth to be kissed, and 
there was such girlishness in this gesture of 
hers that his heart was smitten. He gave her 
a long kiss: a Judas-kiss, he thought to him¬ 
self, and hated himself for a scoundrel. But 
154 


MRS. CRUMP INTERVENES 

■ .am 

the feeling of compunction passed with her 
exit, and before she had reached the top of the 
stairs he had opened the middle drawer of the 
bureau that stood in the corner by the win¬ 
dow. This particular drawer had always been 
dedicated to her exclusive use; never in his 
life had he opened it; nor even dreamed of 
opening it. But to-night he flung aside every 
consideration of decency and ravaged her 
papers. There were seas and seas of trades¬ 
men’s bills, old letters of his, crumpled pat¬ 
terns from women’s periodicals, rubbishy bits 
of dress material, a discarded bracelet, a de¬ 
ceased watch, and- 

“ My God!” cried Crump. “Through 
the post!” 

It was a typed sheet, headed in red: “ Mr. 
Marcus Faithful, in entertaining your appli¬ 
cation, charges you upon your honour to 
destroy this document once you have mas¬ 
tered its contents.” Directions followed, in 
seven paragraphs. His eye glanced down 
them. “ Awful, awful,” he gasped. He knew 
them all, by heart; they were beautifully 
phrased; their composition had given him 
much private enjoyment; he had laughed over 
them riotously. 

“ My God! ” he cried a second time. “ That 
it should have brought me to this! ” 

He carefully replaced the document in the 

155 



GIRL OR BOY 

drawer and guiltily closed it. He dragged a 
chair to the table, subsided into it, and bent 
forward with both hands to his forehead. A 
calendar hung on the wall beside him and he 
dejectedly consulted it. Yes, his wife evi¬ 
dently intended to carry out Marcus Faith¬ 
ful’s instructions to the letter. A succession 
of wild ideas coursed through his brain. A 
sudden call to Paris—a false alarm of burg¬ 
lary down the street—setting the house, or a 
small portion of it, on fire—illness, a chronic 
seizure, his wife to fetch the doctor. . . . 
“ Oh, anything!” he groaned. 

He staggered up to the window and drew 
the curtains aside. The street lamp was shin¬ 
ing with an uncanny steadiness and away 
over the housetops opposite the stars seemed 
to wink at him mockingly, because they were 
so quiet and so free. Escape! His lips 
formed the word. To float away into that 
starry void . . . 

“ David, aren’t you coming?” 

He clenched his hands. 

“ Yes, yes!” he shouted, and then mur¬ 
mured, addressing heaven at large: 

“No escape, no escape!” 


156 


CHAPTER XIII 
BEFORE DINNER 

I T was five o’clock at Savoy Mansions. In 
the corridor on the first floor a huge woman 
in a large white apron was raising clouds of 
dust; all the reception-rooms were deserted 
and even the telephone bell was quiet; but 
the day’s work was not yet done, and Still 
remained on to do it; and from Still’s point 
of view the hours between five and seven were 
the best of the day, because he was relieved of 
the plague of women and could devote himself 
to the pleasurable task of reckoning the day’s 
takings. He leaned back in his chair with 
his feet on the table and a cigarette in his 
mouth, at peace with the world, and watching 
the blue smoke from his cigarette sail past his 
nose. His garb was conventional—striped 
trousers and morning coat—but it suited his 
lean and wiry form; he looked neat, alert, 
efficient. Certainly Crump could take no 
exception to the appearance of his secretary; 
and having once made up his mind that he 
could trust the man, he had trusted: Still had 
sole charge of the books. He and Annette 
both received salaries, whereas Crump was 
content to draw out what sums were needed 
to cover his current expenses. Early on, how¬ 
ever, he had taken the precaution to pay back 
into his private account the money he had 

157 


GIRL OR BOY 

withdrawn for his Paris trip. Having achieved 
this he was considerably relieved in his own 
mind: if ever his conscience smote him he 
was able to console himself with the thought 
that he could at any moment put this new life 
behind him and resume the old at the point 
where he had relinquished it. Mr. Crump, so 
to speak, had not been credited with any of 
his successor’s ill-gotten gains. But as the days 
and the weeks went by Crump’s conscience 
became less and less active. His waking 
thoughts were occupied with his work, and 
with Annette; and life itself, apart from his 
occasional and enforced visits to Maze Hill 
Road, was one long dream. 

Of all this Still was perfectly cognisant, and 
it made him very thoughtful. To-night he 
was particularly thoughtful. On the table 
before him there was a bundle of treasury 
notes and a small pile of cheques; they repre¬ 
sented one day’s returns from the system of 
postal tuition which Annette had so success¬ 
fully instituted. “ Mr. Marcus Faithful, in 
his endeavour to extend the knowledge of his 
system to all deserving classes, has gratefully 
accepted the voluntary services of a lady of 
high birth who has devoted her life and her 
means to the welfare of the people. In view 
of the fact that her late husband occupied a 
high position in the diplomatic service she 
158 


BEFORE DINNER 


prefers to remain anonymous. Under Mr. 
Marcus Faithful’s supervision she will, for the 
future, personally attend to all postal in¬ 
quiries.” So ran Crump’s more recent 
announcements, and as a result Annette was 
kept busy typing letters and addressing plain 
sealed envelopes six and seven hours a day. 

A second time Still went through the treas¬ 
ury notes and the cheques and verified his first 
calculation. Annette’s total for the day was 
over sixty pounds, whereas Crump’s was not 
much more than forty, despite the fact that 
he had not been less busy than usual. Still 
thoughtfully lit another cigarette. At first he 
had resented Annette’s intrusion; he had not 
approved this idea of tuition through the post; 
he had concluded that, with a third party 
sharing the spoils, his own prospects would 
suffer. He had now to admit that events had 
falsified his predictions. The postal idea had 
caught on; his own remuneration had gone 
up; and to-day he was confronted with the 
fact that Annette’s contribution to the general 
funds was greater than Crump’s. And this, 
after all, was not surprising. Annette could 
type a letter in five minutes, or less; it took 
Crump at least fifteen minutes to get through 
a single interview. Still felt somewhat jealous 
that it had not been himself, but Annette, who 
had taught Crump how to make money. 

159 


GIRL OR BOY 


However, he liked her too well to allow this 
feeling to degenerate into any sort of ani¬ 
mosity; and she was always very nice to him; 
in fact, surprisingly nice. He often wondered 
why. ... Annette was certainly something of a 
mystery. Did she tolerate Crump for the sake 
of what she got out of him; or did she really 
like the man? Still could never make up his 
mind on this point. He sighed, and went on 
with his work of entering up the books. The 
whole of the first floor now was quiet as death. 
The woman in the corridor had finished her 
work; only one light was burning, and the 
notices on the doors of the reception-rooms 
were hardly discernible; the lift, which had 
come to rest at the first floor, was in darkness. 

An hour and a half later Still rose from his 
chair and crossed the room. Three green- 
enamelled safes stood against the wall; the 
largest of the three carried a brass plate in¬ 
scribed “ Marcus Faithjul ” Still knelt down 
before the two smaller ones and unlocked 
them. He then searched in his pockets for 
another key, found it, and paused before the 
third. It fascinated him; for weeks past it 
had fascinated him; his eyes were fixed 
on the brass plate; he fidgeted with the key. 
He knew what this safe contained. Inside it 
there were bank-notes to the value of several 
thousand pounds. He was not supposed to 
160 


BEFORE DINNER 


know of their existence. When the safe had 
been installed Crump had casually informed 
him that he proposed to use it for his private 
papers, and retained the key. Thereupon 
Still’s curiosity was aroused, and during one 
of Crump’s periodic visits to Maze Hill Road 
he came upon the key among Crump’s belong¬ 
ings and had it copied within twenty-four 
hours. Ever since, week by week, he had 
watched those piles of bank-notes grow. Cer¬ 
tainly Crump had trusted him, but not com¬ 
pletely: Crump had not informed him that, 
week by week, he had withdrawn from the 
bank all that Still had paid into it. Every 
penny of it! What sums Crump had taken 
for his personal expenses Still had supplied 
out of his petty cash; and Crump had led 
him to suppose that the bank had the rest. 

As a result of this discovery Still’s respect for 
his master had been considerably enhanced; 
it even evoked his admiration. Crump, evi¬ 
dently, was no fool. If the worst came to the 
worst he was in a position to fly at a moment’s 
notice—with the booty. This was a piece of 
foresight after Still’s own heart, and because 
he so very much appreciated it he did not 
resent the secrecy with which Crump had 
undertaken this precautionary measure. 
Nevertheless that safe presented something of 
a problem to Still every night of his life. He 

161 


GIRL OR BOY 

told himself that he was a fool not to help 
himself and to take his departure; he knew 
quite well that Crump himself would have to 
disappear before many more months had 
passed; Crump had promised nothing for the 
future; and yet he stayed on, and worked hard 
and loyally, and took not a penny more out of 
the business than was due to him. Still sur¬ 
prised himself. Nor could he find any ade¬ 
quate reason for this remarkable forbearance, 
beyond the fact that he was not naturally cor¬ 
rupt. Certainly he liked Crump: but could he 
be said to have any obligations towards a 
scoundrel who had removed him from one line 
of business and placed him in another not 
much better? Still gave it up. Had he been 
perfectly honest with himself he would have 
admitted that he might have left Savoy Man¬ 
sions long ago had it not been for the presence 
of Annette; he could not play the traitor to 
Crump without at the same time deserting 
her, and this he would not do. 

These were the considerations he turned 
over in his mind for the thousandth time as he 
knelt before the huge green-enamelled safe. 
He still fidgeted with the key; he told him¬ 
self that there was no harm in just opening 
the safe; he wanted to feel those wads of 
notes between his fingers; if he could but 
look at them he would be content. . . . 
162 


BEFORE DINNER 


He turned the key and the door swung 
open. 

“ Well, what’s all this?” 

The voice was Annette’s. He sprang to his 
feet and faced her. She wore no hat and held 
her evening cloak tightly around her throat; 
she was not less frightened than Still himself. 

“ What are you doing, Still?” 

“ Clearing up, that’s all,” he said, and 
fetched the rest of the books and papers from 
the table. She sat down in his chair and 
watched him. Her cheeks and her hair were 
bright; her mouth was young and sensuous; 
she was an apparition of light and colour. 

“ I’ve called here to meet Marko,” she ex¬ 
plained. She had always treated Still as being 
one of the family, and for some time past 
Crump had never been anything but Marko 
in the way of conversation. During office 
hours, however, he was invariably Mr. 
Marcus. Still liked her free-and-easy manner 
and was relieved to find no change in it. Per¬ 
haps she had not seen the contents of the 
third safe. 

“ Marko,” she went on, “ will want some 
money. He forgot to take it away with him. 
Have you got any?” 

She paused very deliberately over the last 
few words. Still shot a glance in her direc¬ 
tion. Perhaps she had seen, after all. 


163 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ Over a hundred pounds to-day,” he said 
briefly. 

“ Oh!” It was only a breath of a word 
and she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Tell 
me, Still, do you think that anyone will ever 
marry me? Marko, for instance.” 

Still walked away from the table out of the 
close range of her eyes. This was the first 
really confidential conversation he had ever 
had with Annette, and he was astounded to 
find that Crump had kept her in ignorance of 
his visits to Maze Hill Road. She did not 
know, then, that there were times when Mr. 
Marcus Faithful vanished from the face of 
the earth! 

“ Do you know anything about his first 
wife?” 

“ How should I?” asked Still, grateful for 
this clue. “ I’ve not known him much longer 
than you have, Annette.” 

It was the first time in his life that he had 
called her Annette to her face, and she looked 
at him quizzically. Despite the familiarity of 
her manner, in the past she had always been 
something of the mistress. However, she con¬ 
tented herself with a look of mock disapproval 
and asked: 

“ How did Marko get into touch with you? 
He has never told me, and I’ve often won¬ 
dered.” 

164 


BEFORE DINNER 


“ We met in Paris,” said Still, again turn¬ 
ing away. 

Annette watched him narrowly. 

“ And what were you doing in Paris?” 

“ Oh,” said Still, shrugging his shoulders, 
“ I was down and out at the time and pre¬ 
pared to fall in with anything that came my 
way.” He met her eyes. “ I used to be quite 
a decent fellow.” The words came slowly and 
rather wistfully from his lips. 

“ I understand the feeling,” murmured An¬ 
nette, “ I understand. In a way we’re com¬ 
panions in distress, aren’t we?” 

“ I suppose so.” Still thrust his hands in 
his pockets and uneasily paced the room. This 
exchange of confidences was rather embarrass¬ 
ing. She had evidently failed to get any infor¬ 
mation concerning himself from Crump and 
was now coming for it direct. She got up 
from the chair and perched herself on the 
edge of the safe. 

“ Tell me, Still,” she asked seductively, 
“ would you call me respectable?” 

“ I suppose so.” He began to feel desper¬ 
ately uncomfortable under her inquisition; 
and it was not difficult to understand how she 
had contrived to put Crump under her spell; 
he was now “ her Marko.” He wondered 
what was coming next. 

“ I should like to be really respectable,” 

165 


GIRL OR BOY 

she murmured. “ I don’t suppose, Still, that 
you would like to marry me?” 

Still laughed uneasily. The woman was 
playing with him, he knew; but he was genu¬ 
inely frightened; he believed her to be capable 
of anything. 

“ Of course,” said Annette gaily, “ if you’d 
rather not, say so. It’s an offer, though. I 
believe we should get on quite well together: 
only you must get me out of this country.” 

“ Don’t be ridiculous, Annette.” He began 
to long for some fresh air; the quiet of the 
room was oppressive; he told himself that she 
was only fooling; but with her lips and her 
body she was inviting his acquiescence; she 
was coming towards him. He felt ill and 
dizzy. 

“ I’ve no money,” he said weakly. 

“No money!” She echoed the words 
mockingly, and went up to him and took hold 
of both his arms. “ Open that safe,” she com¬ 
manded, dominating him with her eyes. 

He obeyed, and the door swung open. 

“ Well, are you satisfied?” He turned his 
face to hers. They were both half-kneeling 
and their faces were on a level. Her eyes 
were glistening and he felt her grip on his 
shoulder tighten. 

“All that?” she murmured incredulously. 
“ All that?” She was abashed at the sight 
166 


BEFORE DINNER 


of so much wealth. All her life she had been 
accustomed to receive pounds, and here were 
thousands! With one handful of those notes 
she could buy her freedom! She steadied 
herself with the hand that grasped Still’s 
shoulder. 

“ But it’s fantastic!” she gasped. “It’s 
fantastic!” She suddenly jumped to her feet 
and turned on Still. “ What were you doing 
here when I came in?” she cried. 

He made no reply, but quietly closed the 
door, got on his feet, looked at her squarely. 

“ But it would be stealing—stealing!” she 
shouted, and sobbed. However great the 
temptation she would never descend to that— 
never! Marko! She was fond of him in a 
way; he had been good to her; he had given 
her all she had ever asked for; he might yet 
give her all she desired. Not till now had she 
realised that he had already acquired a small 
fortune out of this birth business. A new 
hope sprung up within her breast. She would 
wait no longer, but do something quickly, 
quickly. Her eyes flashed at the thought. 
She again turned to Still. 

“ I’m sorry,” she said. “ I didn’t mean 
anything, you know. I was only-” 

But she had gone too far, and Still, in a 
sudden access of fury and desire, had grasped 
her in his arms and was seeking her lips. 

167 



GIRL OR BOY 

Exerting all her strength she pushed him 
away and held him at arm’s length; her eyes 
challenged him, maddened him. 

“ Let go!” she cried. 

His arms dropped limply to his side, and a 
little breathless, Annette arranged the folds of 
her cloak. They neither of them heard the 
door open. 

“ Annette!” 

The sturdy figure of Crump filled the lower 
half of the doorway; an enormous expanse of 
white shirt gleamed behind the folds of the 
brightly coloured scarf that he wore around 
his neck; his opera hat was a little awry and 
pushed back from the forehead, and his eyes 
looked as if he had just received the greatest 
shock of his life. 

“ Annette, what are you doing?” He 
glanced suspiciously at Still. 

“ It was nothing, Marko,” she said. “ I 
think I must have gone faint. You know, 
I’ve had hardly anything to eat to-day. I’ve 
been typing away the whole time, haven’t I, 
Still?” 

Still nodded, and handed to Crump a slip 
of paper on which were entered the day’s 
figures. 

“ Good,” commented Crump; and to An¬ 
nette: “ Then come along. The show begins 
at eight.” There was an unusual note of de- 
168 


BEFORE DINNER 


termination in his voice, and Still wondered 
what was at the back of his mind. At the 
door Annette flung him a backward glance 
and put one finger to her lips. Her eyes 
were merry and her head was thrown back 
with a rapturous abandon. Obviously she was 
not worrying about Crump—she could be 
trusted to remove any suspicions that might 
have flooded his mind in that moment of dis¬ 
covery; and her eyes were so very merry that 
Still felt justified in coming to the conclusion 
that she had not taken offence at his mad 
attempt to embrace her. He sighed. She 
was very beautiful. He remembered how she 
had confronted him; he carried in his mind a 
vivid picture of that encounter; her anger had 
but served to set her beauty aflame. He 
sighed again and sat down in his chair. It was 
something of a relief to be alone once more, 
and quiet. He forgot that it was time to be 
hungry; he had too much to think about. 

“ And where are you taking me to-night?” 

Crump mumbled the name of a theatre, and 
Annette, seeing that he was not quite pleased 
with her, gently laid her hand on his knee. 
The taxi was threading its way through the 
Strand, and Crump’s eyes were fixed in an 
unseeing stare on the crowded pavements and 
the glittering windows. 


109 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ And to-morrow you will come home with 
me, early?” she whispered, with a pressure on 
his knee. 

“ Not to-morrow.” 

“ But why not, Marko?” Her voice was 
a little insistent. Surely he was not slipping 
out of her grasp. 

“ I am going through the books with Still,” 
he said sulkily. “ I want to know how we 
stand.” 

She knew that it was a lie; but she could 
not imagine for what purpose he lied. She 
did not know that he was due at Maze Hill 
Road and that it was not herself, but the 
prospect of this visit which was responsible 
for his ill temper. 

“ Then, Marko, when are you coming?” 
She spoke in a whisper and almost impercep¬ 
tibly pressed her body to his side. His face 
slowly, shyly, turned to her own. 

“ Don’t you worry, Annette,” he said 
softly. “ It’s all right, my dear.” And his 
trembling hand closed over hers. 

The taxi was now grinding its way up the 
Haymarket, and Crump sat back in his corner 
utterly content. He was proud and happy to 
be with Annette in the heart of this glittering 
city. She belonged to him; she was his 
woman, and there was none in this world of 
beautiful women to match her. And she was 
170 


BEFORE DINNER 


almost his creation! The gown that clung to 
her body, the shoes on her feet, the diamonds 
in her hair, all had been paid for by him! 
And her body, had he bought that too? He 
put the thought aside. It was enough to 
know that she gave all that she had to give, 
willingly. 

“ I’ve got a surprise for you, Annette,” he 
said, as the taxi turned into Piccadilly Circus. 

“ What is it, Marko?” 

He did not immediately reply. Never since 
that night when he had first been brought face 
to face with her beauty had be been able to 
cross Piccadilly Circus without a tremor in his 
limbs. Sometimes an almost uncontrollable 
desire seized him to discover whether she had 
any recollection of the incident; sometimes he 
almost collapsed under the burden of this 
secret; but he managed to keep it. He would 
have been ashamed to confess his identity 
with that poor creature who had awakened 
her sympathy on that night of revelation. 

“ What is it, Marko?” she asked a second 
time. She was watching him closely and 
thinking that there was just that same look 
in his eyes. . . . 

“ Lean over this way,” said Crump, putting 
his arm around her, “ and look up there!” 

She looked, and saw only the familiar sky- 
signs flashing round the Circus. 


171 


GIRL OR BOY 

“Higher, higher!” he shouted in her ear 
above the noise of the traffic. 

She raised her eyes. Across the vault of 
heaven, in letters of fire, there blazed the 
message: “Consult Marcus Faithful— 
The Great Birth Expert!” 

She drew back her head and brushed her 
cheek past his. 

“ You’re a wonderful man,” she murmured, 
“ wonderful!” 

He did not demur. 


172 


CHAPTER XIV 

MRS. MEEK y S DISCOVERY 

M RS. MEEK was very seriously con¬ 
cerned for the welfare of her mistress. 
During the past few months a great change 
had come over the establishment at Great 
Russell Street. Annette’s manner of life was 
quite different. In these days she was up 
and out of the house by half-past nine in the 
morning, dressed in a demure city garb which 
made the local tradesmen rub their eyes. All 
their efforts to discover what she did and 
where she went to had so far failed, and, short 
of shadowing her about her errands, they 
despaired of finding a solution to the mystery. 
Mrs. Meek had resolutely refused to discuss 
her movements with them; on the other hand, 
she had paid the greatest attention to their 
speculative comments, the fact of the matter 
being that Mrs. Meek herself was in ignorance 
of these new developments. And if Annette 
left the house at half-past nine in the morning 
in a demure city garb, she no less regularly 
returned soon after half-past four in the after¬ 
noon. Obviously she had found some work 
to do, and was doing it with a will. The 
greengrocer and the dairyman and the rest 
of their colleagues arrived at this conclusion 
with considerable reluctance; they even began 
to doubt the accuracy of their own observa- 

173 


GIRL OR BOY 

tions. But they had one piece of evidence, as 
concrete as any man could desire: their bills 
were now paid with an unfailing regularity; 
and why they were so paid was sufficiently 
obvious: Miss Annette Fay now had a regular 
client. 

Nearly every evening, round about seven 
o’clock, a taxi drew up outside the house and 
deposited a male passenger. It was always 
the same man; but he was out of the taxi and 
inside the doorway before even the dairyman, 
whose shop was the most conveniently situ¬ 
ated for the purpose, could thoroughly exam¬ 
ine him. Estimates as to his age varied con¬ 
siderably; but it was generally agreed that he 
was not less than forty and not more than 
fifty-two or three; and there was no disputing 
the fact that, if clothes were anything to go 
by, this visitor was a very distinguished per¬ 
son indeed. Half an hour later the lady herself 
would appear, in all the glory of her evening 
apparel. A very different creature from the 
demure city worker! It was generally assumed 
that they returned to Great Russell Street 
later in the evening; but how the gentleman 
managed to get out of the house in the morn¬ 
ing without being seen was also something of 
a mystery. However, none of the tradesmen 
was a very early riser, and none thought it 
worth while to make a special effort to confirm 
174 


MRS. MEEK'S DISCOVERY 


his suspicions on a point that hardly stood in 
need of confirmation. No man would dress 
up a woman like that for nothing in return; 
and even if Annette had become a reformed 
character in the day-time she could never 
have earned enough money to cover her pres¬ 
ent rather lavish rate of expenditure. And 
Great Russell Street, having other things to 
think about, was content to leave it at that. 

But Mrs. Meek was not so easily put off. 
She did not see a great deal of Annette in 
these days. Before she arrived in the morn¬ 
ings Annette had left the house; and her work 
would be finished, even on her long days, 
soon after her return. Annette had never 
vouchsafed an explanation as to the strange¬ 
ness of her garb, and Mrs. Meek had never 
dared to mention it to her face. She had too 
great a respect for her mistress to try any 
tricks of that nature. However, one clue had 
come her way. One day, not quite by acci¬ 
dent, but certainly not altogether by design, 
she had come across a pile of letters in 
Annette’s bureau. She was not aware of their 
contents, for the very simple reason that they 
had none of them been opened; but the 
addresses on them supplied all the evidence 
she desired: Marcus Faithful, Esq., Savoy 
Mansions, London, W.C. 2. That was the 
address, and quite enough to go on with! Of 

175 


GIRL OR BOY 


course she knew all about this man Marcus 
Faithful. What woman did not? The infor¬ 
mation that had come her way was rather 
hazy but extremely interesting: she had even 
thought of writing to him herself. However, 
she had come to the conclusion that it would 
be an expensive method of merely satisfying 
her curiosity, for whatever the details he 
might impart, they could not be of any vital 
importance to herself: she was long past that 
sort of thing. But she was highly gratified to 
have discovered what she had every reason to 
believe was the identity of Annette’s latest 
acquisition, though she made it a point of 
honour to keep the information to herself. 
There was only one thing more she desired, 
and that was to see this great man in the 
flesh; and to-day she thought she saw her 
opportunity. 

This was one of her “ long ” days; more¬ 
over, owing to certain domestic complications 
in her own home, she had arrived late, and 
would finish late; and she privately resolved 
to make her work last out until at least seven 
o’clock. If she had any luck the great man 
would put in an appearance that same evening 
as ever was. . . . She hugged herself at the 
thought, and set up a mighty flow from the 
scullery tap. Annette had arrived home soon 
after half-past four, as usual, and had 
176 


MRS. MEEK’S DISCOVERY 


straightway disappeared into her bedroom. 
Mrs. Meek thought that she looked tired and 
even worried; and she knew that Annette was 
not the sort of girl whose spirits were easily 
cast down. She wondered what was the mat¬ 
ter. Perhaps there had been a row; perhaps 
the long idyll had at last reached its natural 
and inevitable conclusion. She scrubbed the 
scullery tiles with a passionate vigour. She 
was now quite sure that it was all the man’s 
fault, and she acutely resented it. As the 
world went Annette was a good girl; she 
would have worked herself to death for her 
sake; and she was indignant that any man 
should have dared to make her unhappy. 
Usually Annette did not take these things to 
heart. Mrs. Meek was sure that there was 
something behind all this. What it was she 
meant to find out. 

Soon after half-past six Mrs. Meek heard 
the bedroom door open: Annette was going 
into the sitting-room; and Mrs. Meek, who 
had given up hope of seeing her again that 
evening, wrung out the last of her rags, put 
on her coat and hat, and just looked inside 
the door to say good-night. 

u Good-night, Miss!” 

Annette did not reply. She was huddled 
up in a chair before the fire and watching the 
flames with miserable eyes. She was wearing 

177 


GIRL OR BOY 

one of her old gowns—the one in blue and 
gold, which Mrs. Meek had long been expect¬ 
ing to receive as a perquisite and to sell at 
a profit. She at once decided that there 
was something very much the matter and 
went over to her. 

“ Why, what’s the matter, Miss?” 

Still no reply: and Mrs. Meek, who knew 
that Annette always had recourse to aspirin in 
any emergency, was about to set out in search 
of a few tablets when Annette waved to her 
to desist. 

“ But,” protested Mrs. Meek, “ there is 
something the matter!” 

Annette just nodded her head, smiled, 
leaned forward, and locked both hands be¬ 
tween her knees. It wasn’t illness, Mrs. Meek 
at once decided, but worry; the girl had some¬ 
thing on her mind. She didn’t think it could 
be a question of money, because to her certain 
knowledge there were at least twenty pounds 
in the top right-hand drawer of Annette’s 
dressing-table; they had been there over a 
week now. No, it wasn’t a question of money, 
but that man, surely enough! Then a most 
startling suspicion flashed across Mrs. Meek’s 
speculative mind. Had there been a little 
mistake? Could it be that Annette- 

“ It’s all right, Mrs. Meek,” said Annette, 
breaking in upon her thoughts almost as if 
178 



MRS. MEEK’S DISCOVERY 

she had divined them. “ I’m going to have a 
baby, that’s all.” 

“ Miss!” 

Mrs. Meek threw up both her hands, and 
then, for a fraction of a second, allowed them 
to rest on Annette’s shoulders: a motherly 
gesture, excusable in one who was the mother 
of eight. She was not shocked: had she not 
been a person of liberal views she would not 
have remained loyal to her mistress for the 
last three years. No, she was perturbed 
because she at once realised that this develop¬ 
ment would upset everything: Annette would 
have to leave Great Russell Street, the flat 
would be sold up, she herself would be out 
of a job, and there was the baby to think 
about and to provide for. Brought face to 
face with these affrightening problems Mrs. 
Meek forgot the petty troubles of her own 
existence, and softly wept. She heard nothing 
of Annette’s whispered words of consolation: 
all she could think was that she had never had 
a kinder mistress and would never find 
another one like her. . . . She dabbed a dirty 
handkerchief to her eyes, apologised for hav¬ 
ing given way to her feelings, and gathered 
herself together in order to take her leave . It 
was at this precise moment that Crump’s taxi 
came to a grinding halt in the street below. 
The moment for which Mrs. Meek had been 

179 


GIRL OR BOY 

waiting had arrived. She forgot her tears; 
a joyful light shone in her eyes; she was 
aroused to action, and she looked dangerous; 
and Annette, who saw that she looked danger¬ 
ous and meant to have someone’s blood, did 
not choose to issue a word of warning as she 
left the room. Annette, in fact, seemed rather 
pleased, and as the door closed sank con¬ 
tentedly back in her chair. 

Crump was almost at the top of the stairs 
when Mrs. Meek appeared on the landing; 
she used her body as a barricade, and Crump 
was forced to halt two steps down. For thirty 
seconds they faced each other in silence, until 
Crump ventured to utter a mild and almost 
inarticulate protest. Beneath her fierce scru¬ 
tiny he maintained a very firm grip of the 
staircase rail. 

“ So that’s you, is it?” 

Mrs. Meek surveyed him with a look of 
scorn; contemptuously examined him from 
the shining surface of his hat to the glittering 
toe-caps of his dress shoes; her lips moved 
tremulously. 

“ You and your fine clothes!” 

She sniffed, folded her arms with a grim 
determination, and drew breath for a further 
onslaught. 

“ Do you know what you’ve done for that 
poor girl?” 

180 


MRS. MEEK’S DISCOVERY 


The question was purely rhetorical, for she 
immediately let forth a stream of vulgar abuse 
that overwhelmed her victim. Crump was 
only able to stutter a feeble protest. He was 
quite unaware of Mrs. Meek’s identity; he 
was ignorant of what knowledge she pos¬ 
sessed concerning his relations with Annette; 
and he was frightened. Living as he did 
under a perpetual threat of discovery and 
exposure, not merely in his private but in his 
public activities also, he was lacking in 
courage to stand up for himself in any emer¬ 
gency; and on this particular occasion he was 
even too frightened to run away. Besides, 
Annette’s former manner of life was no 
secret; he had done her no wrong; it could not 
reasonably be maintained that he had led her 
astray, or ruined her, or inflicted any new 
injury upon her; he had, in fact, been ex¬ 
tremely generous and considerate in his treat¬ 
ment of her; he felt that he was entitled to 
be indignant at this plebian assault, and tried 
hard to translate his feeling into words. 

“ I will not, my good woman,” he shouted, 
“ stand here and be talked to in this fashion. 
Please allow me to pass.” 

She snorted at his terminology and suc¬ 
cinctly informed him that she was not accus¬ 
tomed to being called “ my good woman.” 
“ Filthy beast!” she concluded. 


181 


GIRL OR BOY 

This was too much for Crump. He mounted 
the two remaining steps, and pushed, with his 
teeth set. He might as well have tried to 
remove a mountain. She continued to regard 
him pityingly. 

“ What, a little thing like you!” 

For another thirty seconds they regarded 
each other mutely. Mrs. Meek thoughtfully 
broke the silence. 

“ It’s a marvel to me,” she muttered, ad¬ 
dressing herself rather than Crump, “ how on 
earth you managed to do it.” 

“ Do what, woman?” shouted Crump in 
desperation. He felt that he was on the 
brink of some new disaster. 

“ Put that girl in the family way,” replied 
Mrs. Meek, and swept past him down the 
stairs. 

Crump heard the front door slam. He did 
not move, but still supported himself with 
one hand on the staircase rail. A sudden 
feeling of loneliness overcame him. After 
the recent turmoil the house was eerily silent 
and deserted; and yet he knew that Annette 
was not five yards off! A baby! He breathed 
the word aloud, and it fell like a knell on his 
ears. He foresaw a horrible and everlasting 
complication in his life; he realised, as never 
during these past rapturous months, that he 
was indeed married to a legitimate wife. 
182 


MRS . MEEK’S DISCOVERY 

Millie! She was no longer a woman stowed 
away in the safe obscurity of south-east Lon¬ 
don. Although he could not see her, although 
she did not take on any tangible manifesta¬ 
tion, he felt that she was standing beside him 
and watching him on that ill-lighted staircase 
in Great Russell Street. . . . And he was 
afraid to face her, and not less afraid at the 
thought of having to face Annette. These 
two women who, in the past, had seemed to 
him to dwell in worlds apart, were now 
leagued against him and were both demand¬ 
ing their rights. He owed a divided allegiance 
as husband and father! He even owed a di¬ 
vided allegiance to himself. ... He despaired 
at his own thoughts, and, rather than endure 
them any longer, stumbled across the landing 
to the sitting-room door. He opened it and 
peered inside. She was sitting by the fire, 
waiting for him in the old familiar attitude; 
and that blue-and-gold gown, too, was famil¬ 
iar, the first of so many! And the sight of it 
hurt him; the memories surrounding it were 
too poignant in a crisis like this. 

“ Annette!” 

She did not stir, though she must have 
heard his cry. Every detail of the room, her 
gown, her attitude, scorched his memory. 
He crept up to her and clumsily put his arms 
around her. 


183 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ Then you know, Marko?” she whispered. 

He shuddered; he wanted to take his arms 
away; the thought that he was not merely 
holding her, but the young life within her 
made him tremble. He had suddenly been 
brought down to earth, and he was still suffer¬ 
ing from the shock. Not a word came from 
his lips because of the terror that was in his 
heart. This new burden of responsibility was 
too much to be borne. He made a pretence 
of kissing her, and realised for the first time 
how different were her lips from Millie’s! 
He felt that his wife was very near to him 
now and that her eyes were upon him; he 
was afraid of this girl he now held in his arms. 
What was he to do with her? He wanted to 
be alone so that he might have a chance to 
think it all out. She gently removed his arms 
and took both his hands in her own. 

“ Marko,” she whispered. 

Crump, not daring to look at her, gazed 
steadily into the fire. 

“ I’m sorry, Marko,” she added, stifling a 
sob. 

Crump plunged into yet gloomier depths of 
misery; he felt guiltier than ever. He stole 
a glance at her. Her body was marvellous, 
and he could not help but feel that he had 
done a marvellous thing. ... If only he had 
been free! 


MRS. MEEK’S DISCOVERY 


“ Marko, it will be all right, though ?” 
She paused, and then spoke so low that he 
could hardly catch the words. “ We have had 
a good time together, and everything will be 
the same when we are really married, won’t 
it?” 

“ Yes, my dear,” he gulped. “ But you 
must give me time. I’m just a little bewil¬ 
dered. I thought, you see-” 

“Silly boy!” she cried gaily; and taking 
his head between her hands bent over him 
and whispered in his ear: 

“ I wonder? Which will it be?” 

They dined that evening on cocoa and 
biscuits, Annette having thoughtfully sug¬ 
gested that Crump might prefer to spend that 
particular evening quietly at Great Russell 
Street. At half-past nine she informed him 
that he looked as if he could do with a good 
night’s rest, and despatched him to his hotel. 
When he had gone she drew up her chair to 
the fire and turned over in her mind the 
events of the day. Of course, if he did marry 
her she might have some difficulty in explain¬ 
ing the non-appearance of the baby. Perhaps 
she had gone a little too far. . . . She thought 
of Mrs. Meek, and smiled. Mrs. Meek was 
a good soul. She thought of Crump, and 
smiled again, but this time with a certain 

185 



GIRL OR BOY 

melancholy. Crump was a good soul too, and 
so good to her. . . . 

“ Oh, it’s rather a shame,” she murmured, 
reaching for her book. 


186 


CHAPTER XV 

MRS. CRUMP BREAKS THE NEWS 

I T was Saturday morning—a month later— 
and when Still walked into Crump’s bed¬ 
room at the Hotel Grande Riche, although it 
had gone nine o’clock, the great man was fast 
asleep. Still did not wake him. Saturday was 
a day of rest for Crump, and his orders were 
that he was never on any account to be dis¬ 
turbed on this particular morning of the week. 
Despite the luxury of his surroundings and the 
elegance of his present mode of life, Crump 
would have been the first to admit that the 
most solid and least unchequered blessing that 
fate had conferred upon him was this mere 
ability of his to stay in bed, as long as he 
chose to, on this one morning of the week. 
Sundays, of course, did not count in this con¬ 
nection: he had always been able to stay in 
bed a little late on Sundays. The charm of 
rising late on these Saturday mornings resided 
in the fact that he could sleep on in a worka¬ 
day world. This morning he was sleeping so 
peacefully that Still regarded with astonish¬ 
ment the child-like expression on his face: not 
even the ever-encroaching bristle on his chin 
served to destroy the illusion that Crump was 
just a big, over-grown boy. His arms were 
thrown over the eiderdown, and the brilliance 
of his silk pyjama jacket seemed a little incon- 

187 


GIRL OR BOY 

gruous with the homeliness of his features. 
He looked guileless, defenceless, and gave Still 
the impression that he was a sort of change¬ 
ling. . . . Seeing how deep was his slumber 
Still propped up the telegram he had brought 
in against the reading-lamp on the table beside 
the bed, and softly left the room. 

Half an hour later Crump opened his eyes; 
he opened them with his customary look of 
vague surmise; every morning it appeared; 
he never could feel quite at home in this 
resplendent apartment. He blinked, and 
glanced at the tall windows. The bright light 
of day was piercing the texture of the drawn 
curtains, and for a moment a horrid doubt 
crept into his eyes; then a faint smile of con¬ 
tentment crossed his face, and his eyes closed 
again. It was Saturday. . . . But Crump 
slept no more; he had too much to think 
about; indeed, so much to think about that 
the quiescent repose of his last few Saturday 
mornings had been seriously disturbed. He 
was not worrying about his business. The 
work at Savoy Mansions was proceeding 
smoothly. With a wearisome monotony he con¬ 
ducted interviews from ten to four; Annette 
sat over her typewriter and grappled with the 
unceasing flow of correspondence; and Still 
attended to finance. There was no excite¬ 
ment, and not much publicity. Mr. Marcus 
188 


MRS. CRUMP BREAKS THE NEWS 

Faithful, having become a national institution, 
had been allowed by the newspapers to pursue 
his labours in peace. And Crump was content 
to have it so: it gave him a feeling of security. 
For days on end he would forget that he was 
living on the edge of a volcano and that some 
sort of an eruption must surely come, possibly 
two, and certainly not later than three months 
hence. But he was reconciled to this prospect, 
and he had already made up his mind how he 
would face it: there were other problems, more 
pressing, and even more difficult because at 
the moment he saw no possible solution, that 
demanded his attention—and kept him awake. 

Annette herself was his main problem: the 
root problem, in fact, of all his problems. 
What was he to do with her? This was the 
query that perpetually confronted him. Not 
another word had she said on the subject of 
her declaration of a month ago. Obviously she 
had left the matter in his hands, because she 
trusted him. Crump squirmed between the 
sheets. Because she trusted him! He buried 
his head in the pillow. He would have felt 
happier about it all had she remonstrated with 
him, distrusted him, cursed him for a rogue 
and an unfeeling brute! But no, she pre¬ 
served a silence that presupposed her assump¬ 
tion that he would do the right thing by her, 
and marry her. Marry her! He plaintively 

189 


GIRL OR BOY 

asked himself why ever he had allowed a fool¬ 
ish sense of delicacy to stand in the way of a 
declaration that he was already well and truly 
married before this disastrous complication 
had arisen; it would have made not the slight¬ 
est difference to either of them. But tell her 
the truth now he could not. He tried to picture 
himself saying, “ I’m sorry, Annette, but I’ve 
been married these last twenty years, and my 
wife’s still alive. I’m sorry, Annette ”—and 
could not. He was afraid of her scorn, and of 
her beauty. He would have felt like a worm: 
he wasn’t at all sure that he didn’t feel like one 
already. The fine pretence he had put up 
through all these months would be shattered, 
and he would be revealed for what he was— 
little Mr. Crump, late of the Morning Star. 
The thought agonised him; he screwed up his 
eyes in an effort to shut out the picture from 
his mind. “ Anything but that,” he moaned. 
“ Anything but that!” 

Since the night of Annette’s declaration he 
had not once been home. Through a friend 
of Still’s in Paris he had transmitted to his 
wife a variety of excuses for this long delay; 
but he would not be able to hold out much 
longer; he would have to face her. He had a 
great respect for Mildred; long ago he had 
realised that she was a woman of remarkable 
intuition; and she was quite capable of putting 
190 


MRS. CRUMP BREAKS THE NEWS 

him under a cross-examination as to the pre¬ 
cise reasons for this delay. He realised too that 
the longer he stayed away the more difficult 
the actual encounter would be. Never in his 
life before had he been unfaithful to Mildred, 
and he had an uneasy feeling that, although 
he had found it a simple matter to deceive 
mankind at large, Mildred would discover the 
innermost secrets of his heart. The last visit, 
now that he came to think of it, was not re¬ 
assuring. On more than one occasion he would 
not have been surprised had Mildred delivered 
an ultimatum on the subject of his prolonged 
stay in Paris without her; and if at the time 
he had paid but little attention to these danger 
signals it was only because the thought of An¬ 
nette and Great Russell Street dominated him 
to the exclusion of every other consideration. 
And she still dominated his thoughts, but in a 
different way. She was going to be the mother 
of his child, and he didn’t know what to do 
With either of them, with Mildred in the way. 
He decided, with a certain philosophic detach¬ 
ment, that one woman at a time was as much 
as he could manage. His one regret was that 
he had not made the discovery before ever this 
trouble arose. He sighed, and resolved to get 
up, in the hope that his outlook on life might 
be rather more cheerful when he had bathed, 
and shaved, and dressed. 


191 


GIRL OR BOY 

He opened his eyes and strained his neck 
to glance at the watch which hung from the 
bed-post; he had not been able to break him¬ 
self of the old habit of hanging it over his 
pillow; it was, in fact, one of the few links he 
had maintained with his former manner of 
existence. Half-past ten! He gasped; he 
had no idea that his private meditations had 
consumed so much of the morning. He threw 
the bed-clothes back, swerved round, and saw 
the telegram on the table. The sight of it 
fascinated him. It was not the first orange 
envelope he had found waiting for him on that 
table; but he knew in his bones that this par¬ 
ticular envelope contained no ordinary mes¬ 
sage; he scented danger, new troubles, more 
complications. He tore open the envelope and 
glanced at the signature on the flimsy. Yes, 
it was Millie! Her message had been retrans¬ 
mitted from Paris: “ You must get away this 
week-end. Wonderful news. Much love.— 
Millie.” 

He did not move, but remained sitting up in 
bed, naked but for the thin veil of his blue-dec- 
orated silk pyjamas, and staring into vacancy 
with the orange envelope held in one hand and 
a crushed fragment of flimsy in the other. 

An hour later he left the hotel and walked 
to Savoy Mansions. His morning attire was 
correct in every detail and the garments them- 
192 


MRS. CRUMP BREAKS THE NEWS 

selves were perfect; even the slight embon¬ 
point of the figure seemed appropriate to the 
man. Casual passengers on the pavement got 
out of his path; the more observant noted 
that the great Marcus Faithful was abroad 
that morning; a Press photographer, who 
happened to be passing, thought it worth 
while to snap him. But Crump noticed none 
of these things. He walked rapidly, with his 
eyes fixed on the pavement and his wife’s 
message dinning in his ears; but not so rapidly 
that a keen observer would not have discov¬ 
ered that Mr. Marcus Faithful badly needed 
a good shave. 

He was able to slip into Savoy Mansions 
unobserved. He did not use the lift, but 
precipitately climbed the stairs. Within five 
seconds, still unobserved, he was safely in¬ 
side his own room, with the door locked. He 
sat down to regain his breath and started to 
look up the trains from Charing Cross. 

Half an hour later there furtively emerged 
from the side entrance to Savoy Mansions a 
figure familiar and yet unfamiliar. Mr. Crump 
had attained once more a dolorous resurrec¬ 
tion. He was complete down to the last detail. 
His collar was, if anything, grimier than usual; 
his trousers looked as if they had been rolled 
up in a bundle—as indeed they had; he looked 
generally shabby, but gave one the impression 

193 


GIRL OR BOY 

that this was the result of carelessness rather 
than of actual impecuniosity; and he was 
carrying his old leather bag. With this the 
transformation was complete; it could not 
have been better had he worn a mask; the 
black and unhealthy appearance of the skin 
changed the character of his face. Probably 
there was not another face in the world to 
which a good shave made so much difference. 

Outside Charing Cross Station he sent off a 
telegram to Mildred, thoughtfully provided 
himself with his customary cheap brand of 
cigarettes, and sat down in the nearest tea- 
shop in order to waste half an hour. It was 
strange to be just one of the multitude again, 
and stranger still to look like them; in their old 
garments he hardly recognised his own limbs; 
he felt that his legs and his arms did not 
altogether belong to him; he missed the white 
cuff round his wrist, the crease in his trousers, 
the fine texture of the cloth; he was impris¬ 
oned within the confines of his former person¬ 
ality. Mechanically he asked for a poached 
egg on toast. Months had elapsed since he 
had last demanded such humble fare: on all 
his previous visits he had proceeded straight 
home, and back again, avoiding in this way a 
depressing interregnum such as that through 
which he was now passing. His bill came to 
something over a shilling. The payment en- 
194 


MRS. CRUMP BREAKS THE NEWS 

abled him to recapture his old sense of values. 
He had recently come to regard the pound- 
note as being the smallest coin of the realm 
worthy of particular consideration: and to-day 
his lunch had cost him a little over a shilling! 
And for the first time he realised that he was, 
judged by his former standard of wealth, an 
enormously rich man. In that green-enamelled 
safe at Savoy Mansions there reposed bank¬ 
notes to the total value of not less than twelve 
thousand pounds; there might even be four¬ 
teen : but what did a thousand one way or the 
other matter to him? The girl at the cash desk 
who handed him change out of one and six¬ 
pence wondered why he had such a silly smirk 
on his face. . . . Crump passed out of the 
tea-shop in a rather happier frame of mind. 
After all, with twelve thousand pounds at his 
back the future could never be quite hopeless. 

Twelve thousand pounds! An income get¬ 
ting on for a thousand a year! Why not clear 
out now? He shook his head. A thousand 
a year did not seem a great deal when he came 
to reflect that for the past six or seven 
months he had been living at the rate of at 
least ten thousand a year; and he refused to 
give any countenance to the idea of deserting 
Annette without leaving her properly provided 
for. He had no need to trouble himself about 
Still: a thousand pounds down would see him 

195 


GIRL OR BOY 

clear of Savoy Mansions. No, Annette was 
the chief problem. And there was a further 
complication: she had become so much a part 
of his life that the idea of living without her 
hardly seemed feasible; on the other hand, his 
one purpose during the past month had been 
to escape from her society. At any moment 
now she might address to him a specific ques¬ 
tion regarding his intentions. How was he to 
reply? He did not know, and it seemed to 
him that he never would know. 

“ All tickets, please!” 

He was already at Maze Hill Station, and 
hardly conscious of having undertaken the 
journey at all. Mechanically he pulled out 
his old leather pocket-case, which was pro¬ 
vided with an inset, now vacant, for his season 
ticket, and was just about to present it when 
he suddenly realised where he was and what 
he was doing. Hoping that this momentary 
aberration had passed unnoticed he delivered 
up an ordinary third-class ticket, and walked 
out of the station. He was now thoroughly 
miserable. The whole world was full of 
women; there wasn’t another man in sight; 
he began to wish that he had waited for the 
great Saturday morning exodus from town. 
He was once more face to face with the petty 
and bitter realities of a suburban existence. 
How frowsy the women looked in this worka- 
196 


MRS. CRUMP BREAKS THE NEWS 

day world! He had never before seen it at 
this hour. The whole population appeared to 
be washing their doorsteps or cleaning their 
windows or pushing the children into the 
street; and were all these women able to 
rejoice in the adoration of their respective 
males? A milk-cart rattled down the hill; a 
butcher’s boy was pushing his bicycle up it, 
and Crump toiled at his side. This then was 
home, and the cultured, leisurely life he had 
just left seemed less than a dream. He rang 
the bell, and a second later was astounded to 
find his neck clasped in his wife’s arms: an 
unprecedented demonstration on her part 
which struck new terror into his heart. 

“ Oh, David, I’m so glad you’ve come!” 
And she gravely kissed him. 

Not a word of explanation! Crump was 
stunned at the nature of his reception. Kisses 
where he had expected reproaches! The 
silence of a deep content instead of a stormy 
ultimatum! She appeared to be deliriously 
happy in her quiet way. She did not ask him 
to talk; he had only to mumble a word here 
and there while she communicated to him the 
news of that little world in which she moved. 
Throughout the meal which she had prepared 
for him she appeared to be feasting her eyes 
upon him; she seemed to have gone back 
twenty years at least, and Crump’s condition 

197 


GIRL OR BOY 

passed from mere bewilderment into one of 
acute and desperate embarrassment. He had 
confidently counted upon coming face to face 
with realities in Maze Hill Road; instead, he 
had quitted one dream only to enter another. 
He stoically ate his food, although it nearly 
choked him, in an effort to appear normal. 

That afternoon she took him shopping with 
her. “ Just a few special things that we must 
have, dear, now that you’ve come,” she had 
said; and tucking him, as it were, under one 
arm, and her basket under the other, they had 
set off for the Old Kent Road. Amazing 
woman! He saw no reason to doubt her 
sanity; but he had to admit that her conduct 
was absolutely inexplicable. She appeared to 
be under some sort of spell, and assumed, 
apparently, that he too was under this same 
spell. But what was it? Crump suggested 
to himself that it must be the spell of youth. 
Her manner, lively at one moment, prettily 
shy at another, revived memories long lost of 
the early days of their marriage, and even of 
their courting days; and of a sudden he felt 
very humble and a hush seemed to fall upon 
his soul. He had forgotten that his wife had 
once been that girl, memories of whom now 
crowded around him. 

Afternoon dwindled into evening, and eve¬ 
ning into night, and as the hours wore on a 
198 


MRS. CRUMP BREAKS THE NEWS 

conviction stole over Crump that she was, all 
the while, waiting for him to speak. He gave 
her various openings. In a month or two’s 
time, he informed her, he would be ready for 
her in Paris; and one day they would be com¬ 
ing back to take over that long-promised house 
on the Heath. . . . But she did not respond; 
she appeared to have lost all interest in this, 
the dearest project of her life! Crump buried 
his head again in the evening paper and tried 
to think of something else to say. He re¬ 
counted various anecdotes of Paris, most of 
which he had acquired from Still, and gave 
them the necessary personal touch: she lis¬ 
tened, and that was all. But perhaps the most 
surprising fact of any was that, never once 
since his arrival, had she commented adversely 
on his trousers, or his collar, or his bag; she 
was suddenly and entirely blind to his every 
fault and failing! It was positively uncanny. 
He began to feel that if something didn’t 
happen soon he would break out into a frenzy. 

At half-past ten she looked significantly at 
the clock. He nodded, and went out into the 
kitchen in order to lock up for the night. 
When he returned to the sitting-room a 
change had come over her. He knew the 
signs: she was getting ready to cry. 

“ Why, Millie, what’s the matter?” 

For response she turned to him two large 

199 


GIRL OR BOY 

eyes and looked at him reproachfully. “ At 
last,” thought Crump. He extracted the key 
of the clock from the usual ornament. 

“ David,” she called out insistently, catch¬ 
ing hold of his coat, “ surely you know?” 

“ Know what?” asked Crump, with a feeble 
attempt at jocularity. 

“ Oh, I thought you would understand!” 
she cried despairingly, and burst into copious 
tears: tears of joy and sorrow intermingled. 
He knelt down by her side and put his arms 
around her, and clumsily tried to comfort her. 

“ And I know it’s going to be a boy,” she 
whimpered, smiling through her tears. 


200 


CHAPTER XVI 

THE BEGINNING OF THE DELUGE 

npHE task of going through the morning’s 
-*• post at Savoy Mansions was a formidable 
one, and Still, whose business it was to sort it 
out, invariably arrived by nine o’clock. This 
morning he had arrived even earlier than 
usual. For one thing it was a Monday, and for 
another, he wanted to get through his work 
quickly so that he might have time for a pri¬ 
vate word with Annette before Crump put in 
an appearance. Quite obviously something 
was worrying him, and he went through the 
letters anxiously, one by one. He divided them 
into several piles: one for postal applications, 
to be passed on to Annette; this pile was much 
the largest and appeared to cause him no con¬ 
cern whatever; a second pile, for general 
inquiries relating to Mr. Marcus Faithful’s 
work; and a third pile, for general requests. 
These covered a various field. Every organ¬ 
isation in the country which in any way con¬ 
cerned itself with public health or social 
welfare desired the honour of receiving his 
interest, his subscription, and the use of his 
name on the society’s notepaper. Those who 
were thoughtful enough to enclose a stamp for 
reply, got one, in the negative: Still saw to 
that. There were various invitations to address 
meetings and to take the chair at public func- 

201 


GIRL OR BOY 

tions: to all of which he proposed to reply also 
in the negative: he had come to the conclusion 
that the less publicity they received, at the 
moment, the safer they would be. One or two 
invitations from editors he put aside for fur¬ 
ther consideration. When he had time he used 
to comply with these requests for articles, if 
the remuneration appeared to be worth while. 
Indeed, his journalistic achievements had fre¬ 
quently evoked Crump’s admiration, and most 
editors were agreed that Marcus Faithful’s 
contributions to the Press were highly styl¬ 
istic. The speedier kind of editor took the pre¬ 
caution of sending an article which was not 
merely ready for signing, but actually in type. 
These presented no difficulty whatever, and 
Still was always prepared to make a few alter¬ 
ations, for appearance’ sake, and to sign his 
employer’s name with a fair flowing hand. This 
morning there were no such requests; they 
had, in fact, been falling off of late, which, in 
Still’s opinion, was all to the good, for reasons 
not unconnected with a fourth pile of letters. 

During the past week this fourth pile had 
steadily grown each morning. So far he had 
replied to none of them, and they already filled 
one of his private drawers. With a sigh Still 
added one more to the pile and counted them 
up. Twenty-four this morning! Something 
would have to be done, and done quickly. 
202 


THE BEGINNING OF THE DELUGE 

“ Good morning!” 

Annette was at the door, in her business 
attire. She smiled at him archly from beneath 
the brim of her hat, glided up to the table, 
and stretched out both her hands for her let¬ 
ters, in mock supplication. They were pretty 
hands, and Annette knew that they were 
pretty. They fascinated Still, and it was only 
with an effort that he was able to avert his 
eyes from them. He told himself savagely 
that she was only playing with him; that she 
delighted in tormenting him; that it amused 
her to see him thus slavishly succumb to her 
adventitious charm of manner and the natural 
charm of her person; and yet, he was reluc¬ 
tant to believe that this was the true interpre¬ 
tation of her attitude towards himself. 

“ You’re a beautiful devil, Annette,” he 
murmured, with his usual raillery. “ This is 
your little lot.” He pushed a pile of letters 
towards her, but did not remove his hand. 
“ Perhaps you’d better look at these first,” he 
added, indicating the pile of twenty-four. 
Annette gave him a quick glance, took up half 
a dozen of the letters, arranged them fan- 
wise, and skimmed their contents. Her eyes 
were very grave when she turned again to 
Still. 

“And what does this mean?” she asked 
quietly. 


203 


GIRL OR BOY 


“ It means/’ said Still, with a valedictory 
glance round the room, “ the beginning of the 
end.” 

Annette picked up the rest of the letters. 
They were all written in the same tone; they 
heralded the approach of the great hysteria. 
To Marcus Faithful’s famous query, Which 
will it he? they responded with another, Will 
it be? His correspondents—the women who 
had interviewed him, communed with him, 
written to him for advice and followed out his 
instructions to the last letter of his law—now 
that they were facing the impending crisis, 
came to him for reassurance and consolation. 
The phraseology of these letters was remark¬ 
ably similar: “ Are you quite sure?”—“ I 
shall die from disappointment ”—“ Is there 
nothing more I can do?”—“ My husband 
knows nothing yet, but I mean to tell him 
afterwards ”—“ I will let you know what hap¬ 
pens ”—“ The suspense is awful, but if what 
you say is true I shall be the happiest woman 
alive. . . Annette chose the phrases at 
random and recited them aloud, and laughed. 
Still watched her glumly. 

“ It’s no joke, Annette,” he protested. 
“ Something will have to be done. So far 
as I can see we’ve got to clear out. The only 
point is—when?” 

“ Does Marko know?” 


204 


THE BEGINNING OF THE DELUGE 
“ Not yet.” 

They watched each other steadily, each 
trying to divine the other’s thoughts. After a 
long and uncomfortable silence Still looked 
uneasily at his watch. 

“ He will be here in five minutes,” he said. 

“ And you propose to show Marko those 
letters?” It seemed to Still that she was 
holding her breath for his reply; he tried to 
evade a direct answer. 

“ Do you think it wise?” 

“ Why not?” Annette rapped out the 
question, and Still felt that he was being 
cornered. 

“ Because,” he replied, speaking very slowly, 
“he might decide to clear out, at once.” 

“ And why shouldn’t he clear out, at once?” 
Her voice was colourless; it almost deceived 
Still into the belief that she was just asking for 
information. ... He got up from his chair, 
opened the door, and glanced down the corri¬ 
dor. There was no one about. 

“ In the old days,” said Still, shutting the 
door again, “ there would have been a queue 
by this time. We’re not quite so fashionable 
as we used to be. However, your side of the 
business is doing pretty well.” He affected a 
laugh. Annette watched him coldly. 

“ Answer my question,” she said. “ Why 
shouldn’t he clear out, at once?” 


205 


GIRL OR BOY 

Still thrust his hands into his pockets and 
buried his neck in his collar. 

“ You needn’t pose for me,” said Annette. 
“ Out with it!” 

“ Oh, well,” replied Still, in an off-hand 
manner, “ you may as well know. I was 
thinking that it would be rather a shame if 
your Marko were to slope off with the cash and 
leave us stranded high and dry. What would 
you do, if he does leave us in the lurch?” 

“ I shall get him to marry me yet,” said 
Annette, with a wicked grimace. 

“ Don’t you believe it!” He paused. 
Should he divulge Crump’s secret? Would it 
help him to win over Annette to his project? 
He came to the conclusion that he would do 
well to wait a little longer. “ And if you 
don’t get him to marry you?” he asked. 

“ What’s that to do with you?” 

“ I shouldn’t like to leave you on the rocks, 
Annette,” said Still, speaking very slowly. “ I 

was thinking, too, that we might-” He 

broke off and glanced down the empty cor¬ 
ridor a second time. 

“ Go on,” said Annette. She nonchalantly 
took off her hat and patted her hair. 

“ Co-operate!” Still blurted out the word. 

“ How?” 

“ Go fifty-fifty, and clear out.” He sank 
back into his chair, looking as if he were 
206 



THE BEGINNING OF THE DELUGE 

frightened by his own temerity. Annette did 
not immediately respond. She slowly ad¬ 
vanced to the table and leaned over it. 

“ So that’s your little game!” Her eyes 
flashed and she flamed into indignation. “ I 
didn’t know that you were quite so low as all 
that!” she cried. “ You ungrateful little 
beast!” 

Still drew further back in his chair; he 
began to fear that those same fascinating 
hands might be at his throat at any moment. 

“ Where are the keys of Marko’s safe?” 
she suddenly demanded. “ Hand them over! ” 

He did not move. 

“ Hand them over!” she shouted a second 
time. “ I’m taking no risks with you!” 

They watched each other like two beasts 
of prey, waiting to spring; and then, before 
Still realised what was happening, she had 
darted round to his side of the table and had 
wrenched from his pocket the chain on which 
he carried his keys. A link snapped, and she 
brandished the keys in front of his face. 

“ Now, which is it?” 

“Find out!” Still looked at her vin¬ 
dictively, defiantly. 

“Very well, then!” Annette flew to the 
green-enamelled safe and, slipping down on 
one knee, began to try each key in turn. 

“ Ah!” She had found the key that fitted 

207 


GIRL OR BOY 

the lock, but before she could turn it Still 
had grasped her shoulders, pulled her to her 
feet, and sent her staggering across the room. 

“ You little fool!” he gasped. “ Listen!” 
And the handle of the door turned and Crump 
stepped into the room. On the threshold he 
paused; his eyes looked questioningly from 
the one to the other. Annette was flushed 
and breathless and had hardly recovered her 
balance; Still was calmly readjusting his 
shirt-cuffs, with an air of disdain. 

“ And what does this mean?” Crump 
addressed them both, but neither replied. He 
banged the door and walked up to Still. 

“ What have you been doing to Annette?” 
Crump put his knees together and clenched 
his hands: his indignation had invested him 
with a certain fierce courage such as he had 
never before known; he was suddenly con¬ 
sumed with a jealous solicitude for this woman 
who had so brilliantly come into his life and 
was now, at any moment, likely to pass out 
of it. “ Answer me!” he shouted with amaz¬ 
ing vigour. 

“ It was nothing at all,” replied Still mor¬ 
osely. “ A woman’s row.” He shrugged his 
shoulders and glanced contemptuously at An¬ 
nette. “ You’d better ask her,” he added, and 
sat down and drew up his chair to the table. 

Crump relaxed his attitude and looked at 
208 


THE BEGINNING OF THE DELUGE 

his watch. It was five minutes to ten. He 
turned again to Still. 

“ There will be no consultations to-day,” 
he said rapidly. “ You can tell people what 
you like. Say I’m ill, dead, or anything; and 
don’t be back late at the hotel. I shall want 
to see you.” 

Annette was putting her hat on and examin¬ 
ing her face in a tiny hand mirror. 

“ Where are you going?” Crump’s voice 
had in it a note of command which Annette 
lightly disregarded. 

“ Back to Great Russell Street—for good, I 
suppose.” 

“What!” Crump walked up to her and 
grasped both her hands. She made no effort to 
turn away her face but watched him steadily. 

“ Aren’t we both dismissed?” she asked 
innocently. 

“ Go back to Great Russell Street, and wait 
there for me,” said Crump sternly, and turned 
on his heel and strode out of the room. An¬ 
nette picked up her gloves from the table 
with perfect composure; Still did not look up 
from his papers. 

“ Here are your keys,” she said. “ And 

don’t do anything rash without-” She 

paused, and their eyes met steadily. “ With¬ 
out consulting me first,” she added with a 
significant emphasis. 


209 



GIRL OR BOY 

He nodded weakly. The look of defiance 
was gone from his eyes, and Annette knew 
that she still held him under the domination 
of her beauty. 

“ Don’t you worry, Annette,” he said qui¬ 
etly. “Whatever happens I shall stick to you.” 

“ Thank you,” she said, and gave him a 
smile, and to his profound astonishment 
lightly touched his cheek with her lips. “ You 
know,” she added, “ Marko would never have 
got along without you; I’ve always realised 
that; and we’ve all of us got a bad kink some¬ 
where or other.” She pulled on her gloves 
reflectively. “ After all,” she went on address¬ 
ing herself rather than Still, “ we’re both of 
us hostages to fortune!” And closed the 
door behind her. 

For several minutes Still remained seated, 
lost in thought. At last an insistent knocking 
on the door aroused him; it was the first caller 
on the list. 

“ Lord,” he murmured, wearily rising from 
his chair, “ this is going to be a day!” He 
opened the door, and in smooth, deferential 
tones began: 

“ Good morning, madam. I regret to say 
that Mr. Marcus Faithful has been overcome 
by a sudden indisposition, owing to the enor¬ 
mous strain to which his work has subjected 
him. If you will be good enough . . .” 

210 


THE BEGINNING OF THE DELUGE 

Meantime the subject of this pronounce¬ 
ment was despondently making his way up 
Charing Cross Road. Crump realised that 
the crisis in his career was imminent. This in 
itself was not responsible for his despondency; 
all along he had perfectly well understood 
that the life of Marcus Faithful would of ne¬ 
cessity be a short one, and as things now stood 
he was not at all distressed at the thought of 
having to bury him. Had Crump been en¬ 
tirely candid with himself he would have 
admitted that the splendour and luxury of his 
surroundings were beginning to pall; and he 
was weary of the daylong sessions at Savoy 
Mansions, and sick of the women. For 
months past he had conducted his interviews 
like an automaton; what enjoyment and pri¬ 
vate satisfaction he had once derived from his 
own colossal hoax had long ago spent itself; 
the atmosphere of adulation in which he lived 
had lost all charm and attraction as the result 
of a surfeited appetite. In fine, he was begin¬ 
ning to yearn for a resumption of his former 
state. Plain Mr. Crump again! He smiled 
at the thought: smiled as he had not smiled 
for many days! He passed a tailor’s shop 
with a mirror at the doorway, and was almost 
surprised to find that the mirror reflected, not 
the plain Mr. Crump of his thoughts, but 
the still immaculate and slightly pompous 

211 


GIRL OR BOY 

figure of the famous Marcus Faithful! And 
he smiled again. The thought of a new hap¬ 
piness to come stole through him and warmed 
the blood in his veins, and for the first time, 
for many months, an old friend of the past 
rose like a cheerful spectre to greet him. His 
desk calendar! “ What is this fame but the 
breath of fools?” He dug up the words 
from the depths of memory, and never was 
ore more precious! “ What is this fame but 
the breath of fools?” Again and again he 
mumbled to himself the golden words; they 
were medicine for his soul and healing for his 
hurt; and it was not until he turned into 
Great Russell Street that he realised that he 
was not yet out of the wood. Not all the 
quotations from all the desk calendars in the 
world would solve for him the problem of 
Annette’s future. 

What was he to do with her? What did he 
want to do with her? He did not know. To 
the one question he could return no answer; 
and as for the other he simply could not make 
up his own mind. The heinousness of the 
thought that he would do well to be rid of 
her shocked him; and he had a dim suspicion 
that he wtmld never appreciate how much she 
meant to him, until he had lost her. She was 
not merely a part of that new life which he 
was so soon to relinquish: had it not been for 
212 


THE BEGINNING OF THE DELUGE 

her he would long ago have turned from it in 
weariness and disgust; and he recognised, too, 
to put the matter bluntly, that she had taught 
him how to make money. In her he had 
seen fulfilled all his suburban dreams of fair 
women in a gay and glittering world; in his 
own clumsy fashion he had cherished and 
adored her, and lived with her; she had given 
him all she had to offer in return for the care 
and the money he had lavished on her; and 
he had to admit that, so far, she had not 
betrayed the slightest sign that she proposed 
to break the implicit bargain. 

How much did she care for him? Crump 
had often asked himself this question, but to 
this also he could find no answer. All he 
knew was that never once had she treated him 
churlishly, ungenerously; she had been decent 
to him all through. And what more could he 
demand or expect? Nothing, he decided. 
Until recently he had never even troubled to 
ask himself what was the precise nature of her 
relations with Still. It was sufficiently obvious 
that Still, all along, had been ready to fall at 
her feet; but Crump had never seen reason to 
suppose that Annette had paid particular 
attention to his secretary’s admiration. That 
is, until recently; and of late Crump had 
begun to wonder whether there might not be 
some secret understanding between them. For 

213 


GIRL OR BOY 


one thing, their work threw them together a 
great deal; for another, what was the expla¬ 
nation of their quarrel this morning? He 
trusted Annette, and Still, too, for that mat¬ 
ter; but there was something wrong, some¬ 
where. He shook his head. Anyway, he meant 
to have it out with Annette, and settle the 
whole business of the child, marriage, every¬ 
thing, one way or the other. The cursed 
nuisance of that child! When he thought of 
it his heart hardened against her. If she had 
taken a little more care he would never have 
found himself in this appalling predicament. 
Two at once! He groaned. If Still wanted her, 
let him take her, if she were willing and had 
been playing behind his back. . . . The vision 
of himself as plain Mr. Crump, serenely 
happy in a world at peace, had suddenly 
become infinitely remote. 

“ You’ll find her in her bedroom, crying her 
heart out.” 

Crump started out of his reverie. The 
voice was Mrs. Meek’s. With her broom 
between her feet and both hands grasping the 
handle Mrs. Meek gave Crump the impres¬ 
sion that she was again on the war-path, and 
with a muttered “ Thank you ” and “ Good 
morning ” he slipped past her and mounted 
the stairs. Never before had he seen Great 
Russell Street at this hour of the morning, 
214 


THE BEGINNING OF THE DELUGE 

and in a dreadful flash of revelation he realised 
that its drabness was not so far removed from 
that of Maze Hill Road, Greenwich. The 
knowledge hurt him. He had always thought 
of Great Russell Street as a most romantic 
thoroughfare; its shops and houses were not 
ordinary shops and houses; its doorsteps were 
not of that variety which required to be ever¬ 
lastingly scrubbed; it was indeed a paradisial 
avenue leading to the nest of his beloved. . . . 
Wrong, all wrong! Crump groaned in spirit. 
He could hear the carpenter in the room on 
the ground floor grinding away with his saw. 
Oh, a workaday world! His feet lagged on 
the staircase, and on the landing he stopped 
dead. He could hear her sobs from behind 
the closed bedroom door, and the sound of 
them infuriated him. What was the use of 
her crying? How could he argue with her 
while she was in that condition? What chance 
was there of his making her listen to reason? 
Question after question he flung at that un¬ 
seen prostrate body. If only she would stop 
crying! He wanted to shake her, choke her. 

“ Annette!” 

He had opened the door and slammed it 
behind him. She had flung herself full-length 
on the unmade bed and buried her head in 
the pillow. Crump caught his breath. In 
that attitude, in her slight business gown, 

215 


GIRL OR BOY 

she was just a frail wisp of a girl, utterly 
different from the grown woman he had 
known; even the curve of her body seemed 
strangely youthful. For him it was a new 
experience, a new revelation. He seemed to 
be an intruder in that room which, time and 
again, she had shared with him; and he was 
abashed at the thought that he had ever pos¬ 
sessed that fair young body. 

“ Annette!” he called a second time, but 
more softly now. He bent over her and 
placed his hand on her shoulder, and she lifted 
her face from the pillow and looked up at 
him; and at once the illusion of extreme 
youth was broken and she was the grown 
woman once more. Crump turned away from 
the bed and walked to the window. The 
look in her eyes had frightened him. In her 
misery and weakness she had appealed to 
him; and appealed for pity rather than help. 
For the first time he realised that she was 
utterly at his mercy, and that he had it within 
his power either to spare or destroy her. In a 
way he felt rather pleased with himself, and 
very much the dominant male. If he let her 
go she would sink to the old level, and continue 
to sink, until the end, although he could not 
conceive what that end might be. . . . Some¬ 
thing before death, he vaguely decided in his 
own mind, trying hard to shake it free of these 
216 


THE BEGINNING OF THE DELUGE 

morbid philosophical speculations. How he 
hated the world that morning! Even the bed¬ 
room seemed dull and drab, and not merely 
because it was untidy. He remembered with 
a poignant revulsion of feeling how that there 
had been a time when her dress flung over the 
back of a chair would have seemed in his eyes 
the most beautiful sight in the world! But 
perhaps he was too worried now to respond to 
the eloquence of its silent appeal. He could 
hear Mrs. Meek stirring in the next room, and 
he thought that he could still detect the faint 
rasping of the saw from the floor beneath. 
There was no more privacy in the house; the 
whole place had become vulgarised, and 
Annette with it. His eyes remained fixed on 
the street below. He was quite unaware that 
Annette, who was now sitting on the edge of 
the bed, had kept him under close observation 
throughout the period of his meditations. 

“Marko!” she called softly, entreatingly. 

“ Well, what’s the explanation of all this?” 

“ Of what?” Her eyes affected enormous 
surprise. 

“ What were you and Still up to this morn¬ 
ing?” he asked brutally, evading the main 
issue. 

“ If you want to know,” she replied indig¬ 
nantly, forgetting that she had set out to win 
his sympathy by a tremendous emotional dis- 

217 


GIRL OR BOY 

play, “ the game’s just about up, Marko. If 
the letters he showed me are anything to go 
by you’ll have a whole army of women at your 
heels before many days are out.” 

“ I was quite prepared to hear as much,” 
said Crump calmly. “ But that’s not all.” 

“ No, that’s not all, and if you must know, 

Still tried to kiss me and I-” She fell to 

weeping again. 

“ Go on,” said Crump, in full realisation 
that the storm was at last about to burst. 

u I told him that he had better be careful 
what he was doing because you were going to 
marry me: because you’d got to marry me!” 
She stood up and faced him. “ That’s true, 
isn’t it?” she cried, with flashing eyes. 

“ My dear,” murmured Crump, taking her 
hands in an effort to pacify her. “ My 
dear-” 

She flung his hands aside. 

“Answer me!” she shouted in a fury. 
“ I’ve waited, and waited, and waited, and 
you’ve said not a word about it!” 

“ Annette, I don’t know what I shall do.” 
Crump dashed his hand to his forehead. 

“ You—don’t—know! ” Annette drawled 
out the words with a terrifying emphasis. 
“ Why don’t you know?” 

“ Because,” murmured Crump brokenly, 
“ I’m already married.” 

218 




THE BEGINNING OF THE DELUGE 

Annette shrieked at the top of her voice, and 
Mrs. Meek, who had never been far from the 
other side of the door throughout the interview, 
rushed into the room, flourishing her broom. 

“ Get out!” she shouted at Crump. “ Get 
out!” And poured from her lips a stream of 
abuse. “ You in your fine clothes ” were the 
last words he heard. He paused outside the 
front door to regain his breath, quite uncon¬ 
scious of the excitement his precipitate appear¬ 
ance had caused among the local tradesmen. 

“ Women—oh, my God—women!” he mut¬ 
tered, and strode rapidly down the street. 
Outside the first Post Office he came to in 
Shaftesbury Avenue he stopped, and deeply 
pondered the situation. Yes, he decided, after 
all this Millie would be a tremendous relief. 
. . . He would go home for the night, and 
this time how willingly! He sent off a tele¬ 
gram. In Piccadilly Circus, although it was 
daylight, his electric sign was palely flashing. 
“ Consult Marcus Faithful—the Great 
Birth Expert!” He looked up at it, and 
smiled; and his smile was as wan as the sign 
itself. Even so were his own ambitions 
flickering out. He felt sure that he had once 
met a quotation in his desk calendar which 
would admirably hit off his present situation. 
“Let proud ambition pause . . .” it began; 
but he could get no further. 


219 


CHAPTER XVII 

THE GREAT HYSTERIA 


B ENNETT, of the Morning Star , was 
gloomily walking up Fleet Street, bound 
for the Hotel Grande Riche. For the last 
three days, according to newspaper reports, 
Mr. Marcus Faithful had been confined to 
his room as the result of the excessive strain 
to which he had been subjected during the 
past nine months. For the moment the 
papers were content to leave it at that; but 
Bennett, who was paid for his work according 
to the amount of space it occupied in column 
form, was by no means content with this 
meagre information. He had retained the 
liveliest recollection of his first interview with 
the great man on the day of his arrival in 
England and he had never forgiven him for 
the ungrateful attitude he had taken up after 
its publication. Bennett reflectively pursued 
his journey past the Law Courts into the 
Strand. He was determined to get another 
interview out of the man, and to achieve this 
object he was prepared to throw out any 
threat or inducement. He flattered himself 
that he would be the first to break that great 
hush of expectancy which seemed to have 
fallen upon so many thousands of women 
throughout the country. Half-way up the 
Strand it occurred to him that he might do 
220 


THE GREAT HYSTERIA 


well to call at Savoy Mansions first; there 
might be an opportunity of picking up some 
useful information. He turned off to the 
left. 

He had anticipated that the place would 
be more or less deserted in the great con¬ 
sultant’s absence; instead he found it thronged 
with a crowd of women in a state of extreme 
voluble excitement. Outside, a line of sta¬ 
tionary cars occupied the whole length of the 
street; inside, it was hardly possible to gain 
admittance to the main corridor. Bennett 
forced his way through the press of women. 
This was not his first visit to Savoy Mansions, 
and he knew that at the far end of the corridor 
there was a door marked Inquiries . He was 
determined to get on the other side of it; he 
realised that he was on the scent of a first- 
class sensation. The doors of the reception- 
rooms were all of them thrown open wide, 
and every room contributed its tributary flow 
to the main stream of women. Bennett him¬ 
self was now in a state of suppressed excite¬ 
ment. He had to fight every inch of the 
ground he covered, and he did not scruple to 
use his feet and his elbows. None of the 
women seemed to mind; none of them paid 
any attention to him; he might have been 
an obscure insect burrowing its way through 
the earth. . . . After a protracted struggle 

221 


GIRL OR BOY 

his endurance triumphed, and he found him¬ 
self face to face with the end door. It was 
locked, of course; he had expected to find it 
locked. One of the women, rather calmer than 
the rest, took the trouble to inform him that 
it was hopeless for him to try and persuade 
the people inside to open it; but Bennett 
persisted in his efforts. He thumped on the 
door and lifted his voice high above the gen¬ 
eral roar of conversation, without success; and 
in the desperation of the moment he had some 
difficulty in restraining himself from attempt¬ 
ing to kick in the panels. Finally, he bent 
down and put his mouth to the key-hole. 

“ Open this door!” he bawled, and within 
the limited space at his disposal, charged it 
with his shoulder. In that same moment the 
door opened and he found himself precipitated 
on to the floor of the room. He got up and 
saw Still, who was standing with his back to 
the closed door, watching him warily. Ben¬ 
nett swore softly and rubbed his elbow. 

“ You don’t remember me,” he said pleas¬ 
antly. 

“ Yes, I do. You’re a reporter from the 
Morning Star” Still was a little breathless 
himself and his tone was slightly contemptu¬ 
ous. Bennett’s sudden entry had considerably 
shaken his equanimity and he was undecided 
as to what attitude he had better adopt. “ If 
222 


THE GREAT HYSTERIA 


I’d known it was you,” he added, “ this door 
would never have been opened.” 

“ I quite believe that,” replied Bennett with 
sympathetic interest. “ And now, may we 
have a little talk? And do you mind if I sit 
down?” 

“ Sit down, and be damned to you,” said 
Still ferociously. 

“ Thank you.” Bennett took a seat and 
comfortably settled his long limbs. He was 
thoroughly enjoying himself. He foresaw at 
least one whole column to himself in the next 
day’s paper; he was already turning over in 
his mind the luscious titles, sub-titles, and 
cross-headings. “ Sensation at Savoy Man¬ 
sions—Anxious women besiege the doors— 
Where is Marcus Faithful?” He earnestly 
desired that he might find the bird flown by 
the time he reached the Hotel Grande Riche. 

“ And now,” said Bennett, “ perhaps you’ll 
be good enough to tell me what’s the meaning 
of all this. Of course,” he added significantly, 
“ you will realise that my position, as a mem¬ 
ber of the Press, is a little difficult. However, 
within the limits of my duty to the public—” 

“ Enough of that,” interrupted Still 
brusquely. “ There’s nothing the matter 
except that all these women have got the 
wind up badly; a sort of general hysteria,” 
he added vaguely. He sat down at his table 

223 


GIRL OR BOY 

and gloomily surveyed a disorderly pile of un¬ 
opened orange envelopes. He casually picked 
up one from the heap and threw it across to 
Bennett. 

“ Open it,” he said. Bennett tore open the 
envelope and read out aloud the telegraphic 
message: “ Suspense terrible, but hope not to 
be disappointed. Any further instructions?” 

“ They’re all much alike,” commented Still. 
“ And as for answering them . . .” He 
threw out his hands with a gesture of despair. 

“ But this is reply paid,” protested Bennett. 

“ Then give the form to me.” Still took 
it and scrawled across it: “ The Marcus Faith¬ 
ful treatment has never been known to fail.” 
“ I ought to have a rubber stamp for this job,” 
he added. The telephone receiver was not 
on its rest and Bennett casually replaced it. 
Instantly the bell sprang to life and Still 
visibly blanched. 

“ Take it off!” he shouted. “The thing 
has nearly driven me crazy already!” 

“ I think I’d better be going,” remarked 
Bennett thoughtfully. “ This appears to be 
no place for me—nor for you,” he added 
obliquely. “ By the way, things appear to be 
rather quieter outside.” He turned the key 
and gingerly opened the door. “Well!” he 
gasped, and stepped back in blank astonish¬ 
ment. There was not a soul in the corridor 
224 


THE GREAT HYSTERIA 


and not a murmur from any of the rooms. 
“ Where the devil have they all got to?” 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Bennett.” 

It was Crump, in appearance as immaculate 
as ever, composed in manner, with a formid¬ 
able look in his eyes. 

“ But, sir,” stammered Bennett, “ how on 
earth did you do it?” 

“ That, I think,” said Crump sternly, “ is 
my own business. And might I ask what 
you are doing here?” 

“ I only wanted to make a few inquiries, 
Mr. Faithful.” 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Bennett,” boomed 
Crump. “ You ought to be aware by now 
that I never grant interviews. And I think,” 
he added, as Bennett turned to go, “ that you 
would do well to preserve a discreet silence as 
to anything you may have noticed on your 
visit here this morning.” Crump walked into 
Still’s room and shut the door. “ And I think 
too,” he went on, “ that I have managed to 
restrain that young man’s rather dangerous 
ardour.” He paused, and then asked sharply: 
“ Where’s Annette?” 

“ Working in her own room, so far as I 
know.” He pointed to the pile of telegrams 
on the table. “ Dealing with this sort of 
thing,” he added, rather lugubriously. 

“ I understand,” murmured Crump. He 

225 


GIRL OR BOY 

walked up to Still and put his hand on his 
shoulder. “ Don’t you worry, Still,” he went 
on. “ You and Annette have been wonderful. 
I’m making all arrangements for the future.” 

He walked out into the corridor and tapped 
on the door of Annette’s room. They had 
not met since their last tempestuous encounter 
at Great Russell Street, and Annette, when 
she turned in her chair and saw him, gravely 
rose and said, with a curl of her perfect lip: 

u Good-morning—Mr. Faithful.” 

“ Don’t, Annette,” he entreated her, 
“ don’t!” 

“ Then what is it, Marko?” She remained 
standing. He felt that he was an entire 
stranger to this aloof and unattainable woman. 
... He fumbled with his cuffs and tried to 
meet her challenging eyes. Was this indeed, 
he asked himself, the end of his romance? 

“Annette,” he began awkwardly, “Annette, 

I’m sorry that I never told you-” He 

broke off; the words refused to come to his 
lips. This was the end, and the full realisa¬ 
tion shattered him. He was going back to 
Maze Hill Road, and to Millie. Millie of 
the green apron and the gaunt figure and the 
dull prosaic garments! This was good-bye to 
Annette, the dainty and lovely creature who 
had been his playmate for an hour! He 
dashed a tear from his eye. 

226 



THE GREAT HYSTERIA 


“ I can’t let you go like this, Annette,” he 
cried appealingly. “ And there are so many 
things I want to explain to you!” 

“ All right, Marko,” she replied, as if she 
were a little weary of the whole business, 
“ you can call for me to-night—usual time,” 
she added, and gave him half a smile. 

On his way out Crump put his head inside 
Still’s door. Still was leaning back in his chair 
with both feet on the table, staring into va¬ 
cancy. It occurred to Crump that, during the 
past few days, his secretary’s manner had lost 
its customary deference. However, he was too 
worried to trouble about these details; and 
he asked himself what else could he expect? 
After all, what were they but a couple of con¬ 
spirators? Now that Annette had broken 
with him he was beginning to see things in 
their true light. 

“ Still,” he said peremptorily, “ we can 
hold out another day. To-morrow we’ll settle 
up. If you want me I shall be at the hotel.” 

In the corridor two women pounced on him 
and cried in unison: 

“ Oh, Mr. Faithful! Mr. Faithful! ” 

“ Don’t you see I’m ill?” shouted Crump 
angrily, and wrenching his arms free, told them 
that his secretary would see them; and, for the 
last time, in the guise of the great Marcus 
Faithful, made his exit from Savoy Mansions. 

227 


GIRL OR BOY 

The rest of the morning and the whole of 
that afternoon he remained shut up in his 
sitting-room at the hotel. He had a great 
deal to think about, but he was beyond the 
point of worrying. Besides, his plans were 
now pretty well complete. He calculated that 
the green-enamelled safe now contained the 
tidy sum of eighteen thousand pounds, at the 
minimum. Well, whatever it was, he would 
divide it into three parts. On this basis he 
would be able to take his share of the proceeds 
with a perfectly clear conscience. With six 
thousand pounds he would be able to give 
Millie that long-promised holiday abroad, buy 
her that house on the Heath, give her a motor¬ 
car and a couple of house-maids, and generally 
start life over again. It might be a little 
difficult to explain to Millie precisely how this 
windfall had come about. However, she would 
believe anything of Paris; and a man might 
credibly perform miracles in that incredible 
city. . . . There was the further question to 
be considered: what was he to do with his 
life when this episode was over? He began 
to contemplate the possibility of setting up a 
little business for himself somewhere in the 
region of Ludgate Circus. One room and 
a clerk would suffice for his purpose. He 
closed his eyes and could see quite plainly his 
name freshly painted on the glass-panelled 
228 


THE GREAT HYSTERIA 


door: “ David Crump, Agent for Advertisers.” 
Occasionally he would send Denning an 
order for space in the Morning Star, and abuse 
him thoroughly if the position accorded it 
were not a good one. . . . The idea of this 
amused him hugely. He would keep his own 
books, gravely interview his own clients, give 
weighty decisions on the choice of media . . . 
and in the summer evenings Millie would meet 
him at Blackheath station with the car. The 
car! His bosom swelled with pride at the 
thought and the name. A car of his own was 
one of the few things that Marcus Faithful 
had not possessed during his tenure of office. 
Yes, Crump decided, life would be very 
pleasant in the days to come, and thrilling in a 
quiet way. He opened his eyes, and the 
vision faded; there was an insistent knocking 
at the door. 

“ Mr. Bennett of the Morning Star to see 
you, sir; and he says that he must see you.” 

Crump rose from his chair. He had come 
down to earth again, with a bump. What did 
this further visit portend? 1 , Did this man 
intend to blow him sky-high in the columns 
of his paper? He didn’t see how he could, 
at the moment; but he would take no risks. 
Another twelve or fifteen hours must elapse 
before another issue of the Morning Star 
could burst upon the universe. Crump smiled 

229 


GIRL OR BOY 

to himself, cunningly, satirically. He turned 
to the man at the door. 

“ Give Mr. Bennett my compliments,” he 
said, “ and tell him to go to hell.” And to 
himself he murmured, as the door closed: 
“ Anyway, that just about settles it.” 

He went up to the bureau and wrote a note 
to Still, warning him to make all preparations 
for instant departure and to meet Annette 
at Savoy Mansions first thing the following 
morning. A sudden gaiety filled Crump’s 
troubled soul. He rejoiced to think that, 
when he left it that evening, the Hotel Grande 
Riche would know him no more. He was 
amazed to find that he was taking farewell of 
its scenes of luxury and comfort without a 
murmur of regret. The quiet, carpeted corri¬ 
dors which at first had thrilled him were now 
but a desolate splendour; even the epicurean 
food had begun to pall. In the old days his 
breakfast bacon had taken the most direct 
route possible from the frying-pan to his plate 
and arrived there in a state of sizzling fresh¬ 
ness; the bacon he got at the Hotel Grande 
Riche was not the same article. Certainly it 
was bacon, but bacon dressed in its Sunday 
best; the handsome equipment in which it 
was served seemed to get in the way of his full 
enjoyment of the entombed rashers; and he 
was already looking forward to a nearer 
230 


THE GREAT HYSTERIA 


acquaintance with the frying-pan in the days 
to come. His eyes wandered round the room. 
Not a solitary thing in it belonged to him; 
he was only its occupant. . . . Home! His 
heart expanded at the thought of home. 
Home was the place where he could place his 
hands on the furniture, plant his feet on the 
hearth-rug, and lift his eyes to the walls, and 
say, “All these are mine!” And, of course, 
Millie too was part of the picture; Millie, 
in fact, would always be a part of the picture. 
... He frowned a little; he had not pre¬ 
viously reviewed the situation in quite this 
light. There would be no Annette in all the 
years to come; no more visits to the room 
over the carpenter’s shop in Great Russell 
Street; no more dinners, theatres, suppers, 
taxi-rides with Annette. Just Millie—and 
home! But his face relaxed at the thought 
of the child that was to be born to her. Not 
till now had he begun to realise all that this 
child might mean to him; while under the 
domination of Annette he had never even 
directly associated it with his own future; 
indeed, he had never had time to think about 
the future; he had been afraid to think about 
the future. The position was different now: 
his thoughts were turning to the future for 
consolation and relief. His own child! A 
smile flickered around his lips, a joyless, 

231 


GIRL OR BOY 

doubtful smile. . . . He had not forgotten 
that Annette too was going to have a baby. 
It was her baby, though; never had he been 
able to regard it as his own; it had merely 
represented yet a further complication in his 
private affairs: an additional responsibility 
which, rather unfairly, she had thrust upon 
him. But there, the fact remained that she 
was going to have a baby, and the further 
point was that he had not the faintest idea 
what she proposed to do with it, when it 
arrived; and he had no suggestions to offer. 
Gloom once more descended upon Crump’s 
emancipated spirit, whose divided allegiance 
wrecked his peace of mind. He felt that he 
was suspended between two existences, not 
yet being free of the one or in full possession 
of the other. 

“ God knows who I am,” he groaned, and 
walked into his bedroom, and peeped into his 
dressing-room. There was nothing in either of 
them that he wanted to take away with him; 
in fact, there was nothing that he could take 
away with him. The suits, the shirts, the 
socks and the shoes of the great Marcus 
Faithful would never be suitable apparel for 
plain Mr. Crump; Still could take the lot, 
and Crump decided to tell him so in a post¬ 
script to the note he had just written. For 
the last time his eyes roamed the spacious 
232 


THE GREAT HYSTERIA 


bedroom, the scene of so many pleasant 
awakenings. Never again in the early morn¬ 
ing would he hear the curtains at the tall win¬ 
dows softly drawn by unseen hands; never 
again would he emerge from a delicious state 
of drowsy slumber and find waiting on the 
table beside his bed the familiar dainty tea¬ 
pot, stamped with the proud insignia of the 
Hotel Grande Riche and containing a reviving 
aromatic brew, together with a few chaste 
slices of bread and butter, cut so miraculously 
thin that they were neither bread nor butter, 
but a perfect and indissoluble union of the 
two; never again would he sink back on the 
voluptuous pillow, lulled to further repose by 
the murmurous sound of running waters from 
the adjoining bathroom. Never again! Never 
again! Solemnly and quietly Crump closed 
the door. When, five minutes later, he walked 
up to the lift, he carried with him only his 
coat and his hat. 

Bennett was sitting in the lounge down¬ 
stairs, and only missed seeing him as the 
result of a momentary lapse from vigilance. 
After thus narrowly escaping detection Crump 
hardly dared to breathe until he was lost in the 
safe obscurity of the crowded pavements in 
the Strand. The knowledge that Bennett was 
still continuing his investigations served to 
strengthen his resolve not to wait a day longer 

233 


GIRL OR BOY 


before making his final exodus. If he were 
not disturbed in his plans he would have 
vanished from the face of the earth by the 
following morning. “ Yes, it shall be to¬ 
night/’ murmured Crump exultantly, “ to¬ 
night!” He called a taxi, and before he 
entered it glanced fearfully at the faces near 
him. Not a sign of Bennett! He sank back 
in his seat and expanded with relief. He told 
himself that he was acting like a fool; that 
there was no immediate cause for apprehen¬ 
sion; that Bennett, as yet, had not a particle 
of evidence he could use against him in the 
columns of the Morning Star. All to no pur¬ 
pose! He became obsessed with the notion 
that, at the last moment, he might find his 
way of escape closed. He was still shudder¬ 
ing at the thought of such a catastrophe when 
the taxi turned into Great Russell Street. 

He found himself at the top of the staircase 
and outside her door before he had made up 
his mind what to say to her. He had told 
her that there were many things he wanted 
to explain. There was nothing to explain: 
only a confession to make! Was he to confess 
to her that he had emerged from the dense 
obscurity of Greenwich? Was he to confess 
to her that he was not merely an impostor in 
his work, but in his person also? Was he to 
confess to her that this wife of his was a dull, 
234 


THE GREAT HYSTERIA 


respectable, virtuous woman who, like millions 
of other suburban women, passed the whole 
of her existence on the approved domestic 
plan? An appallingly realistic vision of Millie 
in her green apron confronted him even as he 
turned the handle of Annette’s green-painted 
door. He determined to offer no explanations 
and to make no confessions; he would keep up 
his imposture to the bitter end. 

“ Hullo Marko!” Her voice was weary, 
listless, and he realised in a flash that she was 
no longer interested in him, although she was 
making an effort to be kind. He noticed that 
she had not troubled to change her work¬ 
aday clothes; and he painfully reflected that 
there had been a time when she had dressed 
to please him and to minister to his vanity as 
well as her own. He sat down without a 
word and miserably surveyed the familiar 
objects in the room. They were familiar 
enough to him, but he had an uneasy feeling 
that he was a stranger in their midst; that he 
had no right to be there. At last she broke 
the silence. 

“ Well, Marko, I suppose that we are just 
about played out.” 

“ How do you mean?” A foolish question! 
But anything was better than silence. “ You 
mean-?” 

“ I mean,” she replied, speaking very 

235 



GIRL OR BOY 

slowly, “ you, and I, and Savoy Mansions— 
everything!” 

“ I suppose so.” 

“ And is that all you’ve got to say to me, 
Marko?” There was just a hint of the old 
raillery in her tone. 

“ I suppose so. No, no, Annette,” he 
added hastily, and again broke off. Appar¬ 
ently there was nothing he could say; his 
brain was dazed and he wanted to rush from 
the room and dwell for ever in outer dark¬ 
ness; but his limbs were incapable of move¬ 
ment; he could only sit and stare. 

“ Marko,” she said abruptly, as if divining 
his thoughts, “ there’s no need to worry about 
explanations. I don’t want to hear them. 
And now, aren’t you going to take me out to 
dinner?” 

Crump just nodded his head; he looked as 
if he might at any moment break into tears; 
no spectacle on earth could have been more 
lugubrious. Annette rose lightly to her feet. 

“ I thought,” she said, “ that because this 
will be the last evening we shall spend to¬ 
gether-” She broke off, seeing that the 

hint was altogether unnecessary; she had only 
wished to make sure. “ Just an ordinary sort 
of place,” she added quickly. “ And—I don’t 
want to be late back. I’m very tired. The 
strain, you know.” 

236 



THE GREAT HYSTERIA 


“ Of me?” asked Crump, at last finding 
utterance and striving valiantly for an effect 
of ferocious good-humour. 

“ No,” said Annette, but without much 
conviction. “ The work.” 

“ The women,” corrected Crump, with ter¬ 
rific emphasis, “ the women!” 

The next two and the last remaining hours 
of his new life he passed like a man in a dream. 
They dined together in a quiet restaurant of 
her own choosing; but he was quite uncon¬ 
scious of his surroundings, unconscious of the 
food that was set before him, unconscious of 
the words that fell from his lips. He was 
just a piece of human mechanism which, 
somehow or other,- managed to keep going 
more from habit than his own volition. Body 
and soul were severed; he was a disembodied 
spirit, perilously suspended between two exist¬ 
ences; the woman who faced him on the other 
side of the table belonged to another world, a 
world incredibly remote. It was as if he had 
never known her! 

“ It’s no good, Annette,” he murmured— 
and now even her name seemed strange on his 
lips—“ we’d better be going.” 

They went; and thus it was that Crump 
bade farewell to life as he had known it in his 
short hour of triumph. The feast was fin¬ 
ished; the lamp had expired. 


237 


GIRL OR BOY 

“1 should like to walk,” she said, and 
Crump agreed to walk, and was glad of her 
choice: a walk would make it easier for them 
both. 

It was early yet, and London was only just 
settling down to its evening enjoyment. This, 
he reflected bitterly, was the hour of the day 
to which he had looked forward, for which he 
had lived, all these months past. It consoled 
him nothing to know that Annette still walked 
by his side; it was like walking with the 
dead. The whole world had turned to dust 
and ashes. 

At the corner of Great Russell Street she 
paused; it was her signal to him to say good¬ 
bye and it took him by surprise. Surely she 
intended to ask him what arrangements he 
proposed to make for her future, and for the 
future of the child that was to be born to her; 
or did she expect to see him to-morrow? He 
smiled grimly: there would be no to-morrow; 
the man she knew—Marcus Faithful, the 
great consultant, the sensation of the year— 
would be dead before morning. 

“ But,” he stammered, “ we’re not going to 
say good-bye—like this?” 

“Won’t it be best?” She watched him 
with serious eyes from beneath the brim of 
her hat, and held out her hand. 

“ But what are you going to do—after- 


238 


THE GREAT HYSTERIA 


wards?” His heart was beating wildly, and 
the knowledge that the actual moment of 
parting had arrived numbed every other 
thought and feeling. 

“ You will hear, later,” she said. He did 
not reply, and she went on: “ Well, Marko, 
you may never see me again! But we’ve had 
a good time together, and I don’t grumble, 
and you mustn’t.” 

He gripped the hand she still held out to 
him. 

“ I shall remember you always, Annette,” 
he murmured with trembling lips; and then 
pulled himself erect and gave sudden and 
brave expression to the words that stirred in 
the deeps of his soul. 

“ It was magnificent,” he said, “ while it 
lasted!” 

But she had released his hand and was 
gone. She was lost to him, finally, irrevoc¬ 
ably! He watched her slight form with 
straining eyes until it became but one among 
the many shadows that crossed the street; 
and again Crump dashed a tear from his eye. 


239 


CHAPTER XVIII 
ON THE EVE 


T HE caretaker and his wife at Savoy 
Mansions occupied three or four rooms 
on the top floor of the building. In two im¬ 
portant respects the caretaker had been singu¬ 
larly unfortunate in his choice of a wife: she 
was an exceedingly light sleeper and much 
given to the promulgation of false alarms, par¬ 
ticularly on chilly nights. The condition of 
incipient wakefulness in which she slept might 
have been an advantage had not her hearing 
been so preternaturally acute that she was 
able to detect non-existent noises. To-night 
was one of her bad nights—as her husband 
was shortly to discover—and towards one 
o’clock in the morning she raised herself on 
one elbow and gave her snoring spouse a 
terrific thump on the shoulder. 

“ I heard something, John,” she whispered 
hoarsely. “ Get up.” 

John got up; at least, he allowed himself 
to be pushed out of bed; he had long ago 
discovered that the position was totally un¬ 
tenable whenever his wife had persuaded her¬ 
self that she had “ heard something.” He 
gave his customary growl of scepticism as he 
slipped into the woolly garment he kept in 
readiness for these midnight tours, and shuf¬ 
fled out of the room. 

240 


ON THE EVE 


“ John, you’ve got your keys all right?” 
But her loud whisper did not reach him; or 
if, indeed, it did, he pretended not to hear it. 
John, in fact, had not troubled to carry his 
keys with him on these nocturnal expeditions 
for years past; it was one of the few minor 
deceptions which, so far, he had successfully 
practised upon his wife. She would find it 
out one day, of course, and there would be the 
very devil to pay. However—“ Confound the 
woman!” he growled, peering over the rail on 
the top landing. Of course there was noth¬ 
ing wrong; there never was anything wrong; 
once a week regularly, for the past fifteen 
years, he had been expelled from the warmth 
of the connubial couch to prosecute these 
wild-goose chases. He cursed her again, as 
loud as he dared. Should he proceed down¬ 
stairs, or should he not? It was an old query, 
to which he invariably returned the same 
answer: he always did proceed downstairs, 
for the very simple reason that, had he not 
done so, his wife would have sent him back 
to finish the job. He continued the descent 
to the floors below. They were none of them 
in darkness, a certain amount of light from 
the street lamps penetrating the main win¬ 
dows, so that he never had occasion to make 
use of an electric torch. Besides, he could have 
carried out this tour of inspection in his sleep; 

241 


GIRL OR BOY 


often did, indeed, to all intents and purposes. 
He made not the slightest effort to walk 
stealthily; there was, after all, a limit beyond 
which he was not prepared to go in this mat¬ 
ter of humouring his wife’s fondness for 
“ hearing something ” in the small hours of the 
morning. He had exhausted his stock of male¬ 
dictions by the time he reached the bend in the 
staircase that led on to the first floor landing 
and was about to call upon the Almighty for 
further assistance, when he stopped, stopped 
dead. He could have sworn that there was a 
line of light beneath one of the doors at the 
far end of the corridor. There was not a sign 
of it now; not a glimmer of light beyond the 
few pale beams that found their way into the 
building from the lamps in the street below. 
He crept up to the door and tried the handle, 
and listened. Not a sound, not a murmur. 

“ Getting as bad as the old woman herself,” 
he growled, and plodded his way upstairs 
again. 

“ Everything all right, John?” 

He grunted assent. 

“ You went down to the bottom?” 

“ I did.” And he pulled over his head as 
many of the bed-clothes as his wife was pre¬ 
pared to forgo. Three minutes later he was 
still awake: an unprecedented occurrence. He 
knew that he was not prone to hallucinations 
242 


ON THE EVE 


and he could not get the thought of that sup¬ 
posed light out of his mind. He wished now 
that he had taken his keys with him. How¬ 
ever, he decided that were he to go back he 
would never hear the last of it, and he there¬ 
fore composed himself to slumber. 

In point of fact John had not been deceived, 
nor had his wife. There had been a light in 
the room on the first floor, and the person 
responsible for putting it on, and off, not long 
before had stumbled badly at one of the pol¬ 
ished corners of the wooden staircase. That 
person was Crump; and had John been in pos¬ 
session of his bunch of keys he would have 
found Crump, the great Marcus Faithful him¬ 
self, cowering behind the door of his own room. 
He would have been even more astonished had 
he been in a position to observe his operations. 

Crump, on the eve of his flight into obscu¬ 
rity and preparatory to his act of self-extinc¬ 
tion, was clearing up. The contents of two of 
the safes in Still’s room lay scattered on the 
carpet; the contents of Still’s drawers were 
strewn over the table. Crump was clearing 
up with a vengeance. The cards comprising 
Still’s elaborate card-index system had been 
heaped together on the capacious chair in 
front of the table; only an enormous expend¬ 
iture of ingenuity and patience could have 
restored these cards to their pristine order. 

243 


GIRL OR BOY 

Crump, in fact, appeared to have made a dead 
set at these innocent pieces of pasteboard. In 
his eyes they were far from innocent; every 
one of them carried the name of a client, the 
address of that client, the time of her visit or 
inquiry, and, more often than not, a few re¬ 
marks concerning her personal affairs, with 
particular reference to her financial resources. 
This record has been in Still’s own keep¬ 
ing, and Crump, having at last had occasion 
to examine it, was appalled by the extent of 
its information. It was a second Doomsday 
Book, confined, however, to the female sex. 
Crump had imagined that Still’s inquiries re¬ 
garding the patrons of the establishment were 
nothing more than the outcome of idle curi¬ 
osity; but in this assumption he had done Still 
a grave injustice. It was not curiosity, but su¬ 
preme devotion to method and systemisation 
that was responsible for this remarkable com¬ 
pilation. Crump picked up one of the cards 
at random. The name and address of the per¬ 
son concerned were entered up in block capi¬ 
tals, and Still, in spidery handwriting, had 
noted the following details: “ Age about 32; 
lower middle class; wants a boy; husband on 
the weak side apparently; not surprised; wife 
doesn’t look the sort of person to encourage 
effort. Pretty well off; paid five guineas with¬ 
out a murmur. Worth following up.” 

244 


ON THE EVE 


There were hundreds of such entries, some 
of them obscene, most of them cynical, all of 
them informative. In the aggregate they made 
distressing reading. Still had noted against a 
large proportion of the names the two letters 
M.C. Crump, coming upon a bunch of the 
earlier entries, found that they were an abbre¬ 
viation for “ morbid curiosity, 5 ’ Still, appar¬ 
ently, having grown weary of writing out the 
words in full. The M.C. sign appeared most 
frequently among the better-class entries; 
another sign, S.S., was devoted almost exclu¬ 
sively to the less wealthy applicants. Crump 
wondered what it could stand for. “ Simple 
soul 55 suggested itself; but he was unable to 
discover conclusive evidence on this point. He 
also wondered how on earth Still proposed to 
follow up those people whom he had marked 
down for this purpose. Had he in mind some 
subtle form of blackmail? or some new idea 
to exploit? Crump, although he had never 
seen cause to be reminded of it, had not for¬ 
gotten Still’s earlier mode of life, and the 
recollection opened up a dreadful vista of 
possibilities. . . . Crump sighed; the mystery 
would have to go unsolved; Still and he were 
never to meet again. 

But on one point Crump was absolutely de¬ 
termined: these records should never fall into 
the hands of unscrupulous persons: he was 

245 


GIRL OR BOY 

resolved to do the right thing by his clientele. 
He began to make preparations for a grand 
holocaust, piling ledgers—the ledgers over 
which Still had spent laborious hours—re¬ 
ceipts, accounts, pass-books, letters—these in 
batches of a hundred, alphabetically arranged 
—and the entire contents of the card-index— 
all these he piled on an enormous rug in the 
center of the room. This done he paused to 
take breath: so much bending down was 
exhausting work. He next removed his coat, 
turned back the stiff white cuffs of his shirt, 
and sat down to take stock of the situation. 
It would have been a simple matter to have 
set a match to the pile as the readiest means 
of destruction; but Crump very quickly gave 
up the idea as being impracticable. Nor did 
the gas fire offer much assistance: it would 
have taken days to have consumed this moun¬ 
tain of documents one at a time. They could, 
of course, have been safely stowed away in 
half a dozen cabin trunks; but it so happened 
that Mr. Marcus Faithful’s cabin trunks were 
stored at the Hotel Grande Riche—and were 
likely to remain there until the day should 
come when, along with other unclaimed lug¬ 
gage, they would be sold to defray expenses. 
Besides, how could he have disposed of half a 
dozen cabin trunks full of scandalous, danger¬ 
ous and incriminating records? With such 
246 


ON THE EVE 


variegated evidence of the frailty of human 
nature and the depths of feminine credulity in 
his possession he would have been a haunted 
man for the rest of his days. There was, cer¬ 
tainly, a little-used attic at home, but the mere 
thought of Millie one day unearthing this mass 
of correspondence so overwhelmed him that 
he jumped wildly from his chair and embarked 
on an agitated promenade up and down the 
room. It was at this moment that he thought 
he heard the shuffling of feet on the stairs. 

Crump kept his presence of mind and acted 
with lightning rapidity. He leapt to the switch 
and turned off the light. At the sudden flash 
of darkness he gasped with relief; he felt safe 
in the dark; the room had gone back to nor¬ 
mal; but he shivered again when the handle 
of the door turned in its socket. Thank God 
he had locked the door as a precautionary 
measure—which appeared to be utterly super¬ 
fluous at the time—before setting about the 
business of the night. A wicked little smile of 
satisfaction played around Crump’s trembling 
lips, though in the darkness there was none to 
see it. The footsteps retreated, and died away. 

For at least ten minutes Crump made no 
movement; his fingers continued to grasp the 
base of the switch; his mouth remained half 
open, ready, it seemed, to drink in the slight¬ 
est sound. But now the whole building was 

247 


GIRL OR BOY 

quiet; over the Strand itself a mighty hush 
had descended; and in the prevailing univer¬ 
sal silence Crump began to wonder whether 
his nerves had not practised some deception 
upon him. Cautiously he unlocked and opened 
the door. A soft aura of light from the 
street hung over the corridor and the landing; 
the peace that enshrouded it seemed too deep, 
too secure, ever to have been disturbed; and 
something of its quality entered Crump’s own 
soul. 

He aroused himself with an effort. The 
night was slipping away, and so far he had 
done little or nothing. Somehow or other he 
was determined to destroy every scrap of doc¬ 
umentary evidence that related to the Marcus 
Faithful regime; but for the life of him he 
could not see how it was to be done. He 
racked his brain with thinking. Before dawn 
broke he intended to be some considerable 
distance from Savoy Mansions; by that time 
too he had to dispose of the mortal remains 
of Marcus Faithful: an easy matter this, since 
it resolved itself into getting rid of a suit of 
clothes and a few other details of costume. 
Another quarter of an hour passed, and still 
he had come to no decision regarding the mess 
on the floor. Panic seized him, and in his anxi¬ 
ety to get on with the job he started to cram 
handfuls of the papers into Still’s capacious 
248 


ON THE EVE 


waste-paper basket. It was soon overflowing, 
without making any appreciable difference to 
the size of the pile. Dispiritedly Crump rose 
from his knees and, with the basket clasped in 
both arms, drifted out of the room. 

It was the sight of the two radiators in the 
corridor that gave him an idea. He felt them 
and found them still quite hot; obviously, 
somewhere in the depths of the building there 
was a furnace, and, moreover, that furnace 
was burning. He explored. On the ground 
floor he found a smaller staircase leading to 
the basement, and in the basement, which 
appeared to be given over to storage purposes, 
he found yet another staircase, provided 
with a door at the top entrance. This door he 
opened expectantly and thrust forward his 
head into the darkness. His nostrils dilated: 
a most acceptable smell of burning filled the 
air, which was warm and stale. He felt his 
way down the stairs and halted again on the 
floor level. In the far corner he was just able 
to detect a circle of light thrown out by the 
red glow of a fire: it was the furnace, and now 
that his eyes had grown accustomed to the 
darkness he was able to make out its black 
and ugly shape quite plainly. Careless of the 
sound of his footsteps on the stone-tiled floor 
he walked over to it and examined it. His 
face lit up: the problem was solved: that fiery 

249 


GIRL OR BOY 


interior could be relied upon to consume a 
small library in the twinkling of an eye. He 
shot the contents of the waste-paper basket 
through the opening in the top, and a minute 
later only a few smouldering embers remained. 
The flickering light from the flames played 
over Crump’s absorbed features, making him 
look like some dreadful ghoul of the night 
superintending his demoniac rites. 

He climbed to the first floor again, his heart 
as light as the basket he carried; but this 
sudden elevation of spirit was succeeded by 
an equal depression when he once more found 
himself confronted by the heap of stuff await¬ 
ing removal. The basket shrank to pitifully 
small proportions; he saw himself making one 
thousand and one journeys up and down those 
stairs—an impossible state of affairs. He 
viciously flung the basket into one corner and 
not for the first time deeply pondered the 
situation. The rug which now lay submerged 
under a sea of papers was huge and heavy; it 
would be a hefty load in itself; on the other 
hand, it was square and its capacity was suf¬ 
ficient for his purpose. Clumsily he pulled 
up its four corners, grasping them, with a 
mighty effort, in both hands. After a mo¬ 
ment’s pause to take breath he planted his 
feet firmly on the ground, bent his back, and 
swung round the burden on to his shoulders. 
250 


ON THE EVE 


His knees felt as if they might give way at any 
moment; but determination of spirit tri¬ 
umphed over the limitations of the body, and 
blindly, breathlessly, he staggered out of the 
room. He slid rather than walked down the 
various flights of stairs; he was only conscious 
of the fact that, somehow or other, he was 
going round and down; and he recovered from 
a waking nightmare to find himself in a heap 
in front of the furnace. The rug had dropped 
from his numbed fingers, distributing its con¬ 
tents in all directions over the stone floor. 
Crump ruefully surveyed the havoc and sym¬ 
pathetically rubbed the bruises on his arms 
where he had bumped them in the course of 
his desperate passage. 

But he had no time to indulge in self-con¬ 
dolence; the night was wearing on and, what¬ 
ever happened, he had to be out of Savoy 
Mansions some time before dawn. He set to 
work with a will. Using his arms as a kind 
of shovel he scooped fluttering clouds of white 
paper into the glowing orifice of the furnace, 
and continued to cram it with unremitting and 
unmitigated ferocity until not a scrap of 
paper remained around the stoke-hole. He 
paused in his labours and listened to the con¬ 
suming roar from within as if it were earth’s 
divinest music. When it began to subside his 
mind once more sprang to attention; his work 

251 


GIRL OR BOY 

was not yet done. He folded up the rug, care¬ 
fully inspected every corner of the staircases 
and landings for any fragments that had 
escaped the main holocaust and, finding none, 
returned to the room and locked the door. It 
was with a very solemn face that he searched 
in his pockets for the key to all his fortune: 
the key of the green-enamelled safe. He was 
solemn because he was about to enact the last 
scene of all in the meteoric career of the re¬ 
nowned Marcus Faithful. He inserted the key 
in the lock, paused in the hush of expectation, 
and turned it; and the door swung open. 

“ God!” 

The word fell from Crump’s lips lighter 
than a breath and a look of complete incre¬ 
dulity crept into and filled his staring eyes. At 
first sight the safe appeared to be quite empty, 
and it was not until several seconds had 
elapsed that Crump realised that on one of the 
shelves—which, a few days before, to his cer¬ 
tain knowledge had been loaded with wealth 
—a small bundle of bank-notes remained. He 
mournfully examined them under the light. 
On the outside note Still had scrawled a mes¬ 
sage in his thin, small handwriting: “ Approx. 
£6,000—your share—Annette insisted—best 
of luck—so long, Marko!” 

Crump read through this highly abbreviated 
announcement time and again. He did not 
252 


ON THE EVE 


pause to consider whether or no Still had 
correctly apportioned his share of the pro¬ 
ceeds; he was beyond caring about Still’s 
impertinent usage of Annette’s pet name for 
himself; he did not burn with resentment at 
this forestalling of his plans—for it was im¬ 
possible to regard this procedure on the part 
of Still as being an act of pure treachery: what 
fascinated him was the cryptic remark—“ An¬ 
nette insisted.” What did it mean? What 
was he to infer? Had Annette flown too— 
with Still? The thought scorched him, and it 
was only with an effort that he roused himself 
to stuff the bundle in his pocket and slam the 
door of the safe. The door shut with the vio¬ 
lence of a pistol shot and the noise of it in¬ 
stantly restored his mental balance. He cursed 
himself for a careless fool and anxiously 
awaited developments. Nothing stirred, and 
he breathed again. He took a final glance 
round the room. He had made a clean sweep 
of it; nothing in the shape of documentary 
evidence remained to connect it up with the 
occupation of Marcus Faithful. As a last pre¬ 
caution he removed from the table the used 
sheets of blotting-paper and crushed them into 
his coat pocket, and passed through the inter¬ 
communicating door into his own room. 

Here there was nothing to burn, nothing to 
remove, not a trace of his to obliterate. The 

253 


GIRL OR BOY 

heavy tomes in the bookcase had remained 
undisturbed through all these months, and for 
all he cared might remain undisturbed to the 
end of time: no evidence as to the true nature 
of his recent activities could be gleaned from 
them. Ten thousand investigators might ex¬ 
amine every detail of the room for ten thou¬ 
sand years, and be not a whit the wiser; and 
almost for the first time that night Crump 
smiled, a cunning, satisfied little smile, born 
on the verge of the mouth and the eyes, but 
never extending much further. It had occurred 
to him to wonder what would happen could 
walls but speak. . . . But he had now less time 
than ever for these fanciful considerations, 
and he resolutely marched across to the book¬ 
case and unlocked the concealed drawer at the 
foot of it. Tenderly, even timorously, Crump 
drew forth the only object it contained: the 
old and battered suit-case, the inseparable 
companion of his earlier days. He opened it 
and turned it upside down. A medley of gar¬ 
ments flopped on to the table, the earthly 
apparel of Mr. Crump, complete to the last 
detail of the stud in the shirt-collar. He dis¬ 
robed and, divested of his fine clothes and his 
equally fine linen, stood, for one dreadful mo¬ 
ment, naked to the world. A moment later he 
had definitely crossed the border-line between 
his two existences, enduing that under-vest 
254 


ON THE EVE 


which had passed through the turmoil of Mrs. 
Crump’s wash-tub on innumerable occasions. 
Five minutes later the transformation was 
complete: the last remaining vestiges of the 
great Marcus Faithful resided in a heap of 
garments that lay tumbling at the feet of this 
startling and yet not unfamiliar apparition. 
What was left over from the first pile—a 
spare shirt and under-vest; a collar or so, all 
more or less dirty; his old rather Spartan 
toilet equipment, conspicuous for the cut¬ 
throat razor which, one morning, so very long 
ago, he had so lovingly fingered, and the some¬ 
what leaky bottle of yellow hair-oil—all these 
he bundled back into the suit-case. 

He was now ready for flight, or very nearly 
ready: he had yet to dispose of the mortal 
vestments of his predecessor. Having trans¬ 
ferred the wad of bank-notes into the inside 
pocket of his old coat, he gathered up the 
debris and descended to the stoke-hole. On 
the way down he spared a glance for the 
outside windows. The light from the street 
lamps still cast a sheen over them, but its 
character, even as he looked, seemed to be 
changing. Dawn was about to break, if indeed 
it had not already broken. Panic again seized 
his limbs and paralysed thought. For the 
moment he was possessed of only one desire, 
and that was to be rid of the incriminating 

255 


GIRL OR BOY 


bundle of clothes he carried. With a fierce 
joy he fed the hungry furnace, resisting with¬ 
out difficulty the temptation to empty the 
pockets first. Into the new world which he 
was about to enter—or to which he was to 
return—he would carry nothing that did not 
belong to him by prescriptive right. Not a 
vestige should Marcus Faithful leave on the 
track of time! Crump flung a boot into the 
raging fire. The smell of burning leather nau¬ 
seated him, but he did not care; so long as it 
was consumed he would be content. But the 
other boot? The devil! He must have left it 
upstairs. . . . Up he went again, three at a 
time. The boot was lying on the first-floor 
landing; in his excitement he had failed to 
hear it drop. He snatched it from the ground 
and turned back to the staircase, without 
pausing in his impetuous career; but at the 
top of the staircase he pulled himself up with 
a jerk and with a look of terrified surmise 
sniffed the air. The smell of burning leather 
was rising in great waves from the depth of 
the building; he could almost see them, feel 
them, as they passed; and they were evermore 
rising, rising. He fled back to his room. 
Already the fumes had penetrated every nook 
and cranny of it. He was now incapable of 
considered action; he assumed that, by now, 
the fumes must have reached the top of the 
256 


ON THE EVE 


building, if not heaven itself. ... He rammed 
the odd boot into the suit-case, and without 
so much as a farewell glance round the room 
in which he had been born to fame and afflu¬ 
ence, completed the evacuation of Savoy 
Mansions, to all eternity, within the space of 
five seconds. In the Strand a newspaper van 
flashed past him. At the rear of it, in the 
mingled light of dawn and an electric stand¬ 
ard, he just had time and light enough to read 
the contents bill of that day’s issue of the 
Morning Star: “ Sensation at Savoy Man¬ 
sions.” A second van flashed past: “ Sen¬ 
sation at Savoy Mansions ” was the 
message it held in readiness for a still sleep¬ 
ing universe; and a third and a fourth and 
a fifth and a sixth, all of them bearing their 
thousands of copies to enliven the jaded 
minds of their million readers. 

Crump shuddered. He was still shudder¬ 
ing when, on the steps of the Embankment 
near Westminster Bridge, fearfully but un¬ 
observed, he dropped into the grey swirling 
waters the boot of the illustrious dead. 


257 


CHAPTER XIX 
RESURRECTION MORNING 


M RS. MEEK'S delight was tinged with 
melancholy. Annette had left Great 
Russell Street—for good, she had said, and 
Mrs. Meek believed her; and much as she 
would have liked to have seen her mistress 
again, Mrs. Meek tearfully confessed to her¬ 
self that it was perhaps better not. . . . For 
Annette had left behind her what was, in Mrs. 
Meek's estimation, a glorious heritage: to wit, 
the tenancy and occupation, in her absence, 
of the rooms in Great Russell Street, for at 
least three years, not forgetting the use of the 
furniture. Should she take it into her head 
to return to the country at any time, anything 
might happen: certainly the highly attractive 
prospect now held out before Mrs. Meek's 
enchanted eyes would be rudely disturbed. 
Mrs. Meek, in fact, was already envisaging 
the accumulation of great wealth; she was on 
this, the very morning after Annette's depar¬ 
ture, laboriously but patiently engaged on the 
production of a notice intended to read: 
“ Furnished Apartments For a Single 
Gentleman." She had made use of some 
of Annette's chalks for the purpose, and used 
them in the greatest possible variety; a few 
twirls, impartially distributed throughout the 
script, put the finishing touches to what was, 
258 


RESURRECTION MORNING 


in her opinion, a notice not less attractive 
than the apartments offered; without the 
evidence of her own eyes she would never 
have believed herself capable of such artistic 
achievement. Proudly she bore it to the 
window. 

The card lodged on the window-ledge to 
Mrs. Meek’s entire satisfaction; her only 
regret was that she was unable to tell precisely 
how well it looked from the street level; and 
although she had courage enough for most 
things in this world, she did not quite like 
the idea of going out into the street in her 
present attire in order to make the desired 
inspection. It could, of course, be done 
surreptitiously, but there was always the risk 
of an unwelcome encounter with the green¬ 
grocer, or the dairyman, or some of the other 
even more impudent tradesmen further down 
the street. As it was, they would have quite 
enough to say on the subject of this change¬ 
over when the facts came out; and that, as 
she well knew, wouldn’t take long. She 
decided that she would do well to curb her 
impatience and wait until she was properly 
dressed for a perfectly legitimate shopping 
expedition. And then the miracle happened. 

There was the usual sort of traffic passing 
down the street—the usual mixture of theatre 
people, itinerant tradesmen, messenger-boys, 

259 


GIRL OR BOY 

an occasional leisurely member of the police 
force, and a good sprinkling of business men 
whose work began at the aristocratic hour of 
ten in the morning. None of this hurrying 
throng—and, of course, she was not contem¬ 
plating a police officer as a tenant for her very 
desirable apartments—had time to pay any 
attention to some artistic production at a 
first-class window; nor was she the sort of 
person to indulge unreasonable expectations. 
She was prepared to wait a week or a fortnight 
before she caught her man. But—a miracle! 

A man had not merely halted beneath her 
windows; he was surveying her notice with an 
interest and an intensity which surpassed her 
own. He was positively drinking in the 
intelligence it conveyed; his eyes never re¬ 
laxed their profound scrutiny. A lively 
warmth suffused Mrs. Meek’s ample bosom, 
and it was with considerable reluctance that 
she resisted the temptation to lean from the 
window and invite him to come in. She 
refrained, for two reasons: she had a proper 
sense of the dignity of a lodging-house keeper, 
and on reflection she was not at all certain 
that this was the type of man she was after. It 
was sufficiently obvious that he was looking 
for rooms: apart from the interest he displayed 
in the notice, she found conclusive evidence 
in the suit-case he held at his side. No, it 
260 


RESURRECTION MORNING 


was by no means a handsome piece of luggage:' 
come to that, you couldn’t get much luggage 
at all into a case that size, oh no. Such was 
Mrs. Meek’s unspoken comment. And the 
man’s clothes: they too weren’t up to much, 
oh no: looked, in fact, as if they had recently 
been put through a mangle. No, Mrs. Meek 
was not impressed. On the other hand, she 
was the last person in the world to refuse good 
money—if she once got sight of it; and, as 
she well knew, some of these fine gentlemen 
were rotten bad payers. . . . Mrs. Meek dis¬ 
creetly and prudently decided to withhold 
judgment. Her motto in this world always 
had been, “ You never know.” She left the 
window and composed herself for the next 
move. A touch here and there, a brisk rub 
down of her face with her apron and, with 
hands clasped over the abdomen, she was 
ready for all eventualities. 

She had not long to wait. A thin voice 
came from below: 

“ Is anyone here, please?” 

“ Come up,” she cried, flinging wide the 
door. He came, and as he climbed the stairs 
she closely regarded him. The man had a 
nice homely sort of face; he did not look as if 
he drank to excess; and if his clothes weren’t 
too good-looking there was nothing the matter 
with the stuff they were made of. In an 

261 


GIRL OR BOY 

imaginative flight she saw herself offering, 
gratis and for nothing, to press the poor dear’s 
trousers. What he needed, of course, was a 
woman to look after him; and, if he paid her 
well, she wouldn’t object to throwing in a few 
extras. The transaction was as good as 
complete. She had let her rooms within 
the first five minutes! She burst into 
speech. 

“ Come to see the rooms, sir, have you? 
I can thoroughly recommend them. Nicely 
furnished they are: most suitable for an 
artistic gentleman like yourself. Everything 
to hand too-” 

“ Excuse me,” interjected Mr. Crump. 
“ I think perhaps you’re making some mis¬ 
take. I’m not in need of your rooms at the 
moment. I was intending to ask you if 
you would be so good as to tell me what has 
happened to Miss Annette Fay?” 

“Well, I never! And what, might I ask, 
do you know about Miss Annette Fay?” 

Her bosom expanded under the expanse of 
black material that enveloped it; she rose at 
least three inches in height; she intimidated 
him with her eyes; and her inquiry was more 
in the nature of a threat than a mere request 
for information. 

“ Oh,” said Mr. Crump, his head going to 
one side, “ I just knew her.” 

262 



RESURRECTION MORNING 

Mrs. Meek was not in a condition to 
appreciate the extreme pathos in his voice; 
she was too incensed by the deception this 
intruder’s conduct had created in her mind to 
be anything but brutal. 

“ You — knew — her! ” She lashed the 
words singly in his face; and her own under¬ 
went the most violent contortions. “ You!” 
And she slammed the door in his face. She 
heard him drag his feet down the stairs, and 
having made sure that he was well off the 
premises, rushed to the window; and there, 
to her full-blooded rage and astonishment, she 
found this same man’s silly face once more 
staring at the notice in the window. A fury 
of resentment possessed her, and flinging up 
the window she shouted: 

“ Go away! If you want to know, she’s 
gone! Went last night. I’m mistress here 
now, and I don’t want you hanging around. 
Go away!” 

But the man, under a spell, as it were, 
continued to stare at the house in a bewildered 
fashion, and Mrs. Meek, with a last despairing 
shriek of annoyance, pulled down the window 
and replaced the card on its ledge. She 
despaired of ever getting to the bottom of this 
particular mystery. Her eyes happened to 
fall on a letter propped up on the mantel¬ 
shelf, addressed in Annette’s handwriting to 

263 


GIRL OR BOY 

Marcus Faithful, Esq. The sight of it pro¬ 
vided an outlet for her wrath. 

“ If that man dares to show his face here 
this morning,” she began; and then broke 
off, and wisely turned her attention to the 
immediate problems of her new station in life. 

Meanwhile Mr. Crump, having at last 
contrived to drag himself away from the 
window, was making his last mournful exit 
from Great Russell Street. He wished that 
he had never ventured near it that morning, 
although he excused himself with the thought 
that he had never intended to do more than 
look at the house. He knew, of course, that 
no one would recognise him; still, he had to 
admit that Mrs. Meek’s onslaught had given 
him a nasty shock; it proved, more than 
adequately, how far removed he was from any 
chance of recognition in his new shape and 
form. On previous occasions she had given 
him a piece of her mind; but never quite like 
that. . . . Mr. Crump was wounded; and he 
felt a little sorry for himself. 

“ Hell!” 

The expletive escaped unconsciously from 
his lips; it was his way of fortifying himself 
against the woes that beset him. This back¬ 
ward look into the buried past was doing him 
no good at all. What concern had he now 
with Annette’s movements and activities? As 
264 


RESURRECTION MORNING 


little as her concern with himself, the dead! 
And the child? Mr. Crump smiled wearily, 
wistfully. Probably she had deceived him 
on that point. He had never quite believed in 
the possibility of that child. . . . 

He entered the first tea-shop he came to and 
mechanically ordered his customary poached 
egg on toast. He was now beginning to see 
daylight. First of all he had to consider the 
question of paying the six thousand pounds 
into the bank. It might be safer, he decided, 
to carry through this rather delicate operation 
at the Paris branch. Certainly he could not see 
himself strolling into his own City branch and 
casually handing over the counter notes to the 
value of six thousand pounds, payable to his 
own account. For once in a way those fellows 
would lose their imperturbability and their 
general smoothness of manner. They might 
politely suggest that he should see the 
manager. ... No, despite the fact that these 
notes were making him feel acutely self- 
conscious of the existence of his breast-pocket, 
he would have to hold on to them for the time 
being. And then he had to concoct a feasible 
story for Millie’s exclusive benefit. However, 
he could think this out in the train on the way 
home. He had not the slightest doubt in 
his own mind that the setting in which he 
placed it would blind Millie to any imperfec- 

265 


GIRL OR BOY 

tions which were not too obvious. As soon 
as possible, though, he must send her a 
wire . . . 

Mr. Crump felt a slight choking sensation 
in his throat. A man had planted himself in 
the seat opposite his own and distended to his 
view the main news page of the Morning Star. 
He had bought a copy of the paper and care¬ 
fully put it away in his suit-case; he had 
promised himself the pleasure of reading it 
when he was safely out of the country. Not 
that it mattered, of course: only he felt dis¬ 
inclined at the moment to suffer Bennett’s 
insolence. That young man had been allowed 
to take his revenge, and Mr. Crump did not 
doubt that he had availed himself of the 
opportunity to the utmost limits of discretion. 
No, he refused to read the stuff; and he had 
to admit that he felt a little squeamish at the 
thought of having to read it. But why should 
he? He viciously dug his fork into the 
liquid interior of his poached egg. . . . But 
it was of no use: he had to look, and slowly 
and shamefacedly he raised his eyes to the 
level of the head-lines. Yes, it was there— 
“ Sensation at Savoy Mansions ”—over 
three columns; and underneath the ominous 
query — “ Where is Mr. Marcus Faith¬ 
ful?” And last, “ The Truth Soon to be 
Revealed.” Mr. Crump scanned the first few 
266 


RESURRECTION MORNING 


large-type paragraphs. As he had expected, 
Bennett had missed nothing; he had strung 
together a series of facts and prognostications 
which, though individually harmless, produced 
in the mass a most damaging impression. Ben¬ 
nett poured out his sympathy for the throngs 
of distraught women who, having put their 
faith in his powerful word, now appeared to 
have been callously left to their own devices. 
He evinced a pained surprise that any man— 
much less Mr. Marcus Faithful—should find it 
possible to resist the pitiful appeal wrung from 
so many aching hearts. ... He did not, of 
course, dare to hint that this great man was 
nothing but a charlatan; but he as good as 
said it when he remarked that, although it 
might be no more than a curious coincidence, 
it was nevertheless somewhat remarkable that 
Mr. Marcus FaithfuPs disappearance from 
Savoy Mansions should have occurred on the 
very eve of discovery. . . . The article briefly 
concluded with a sinister reference to the fact 
that the gentleman whose honour was so 
closely concerned in these transactions had 
brusquely refused to receive at his hotel the 
accredited representatives of the Press. There 
was more of it in the middle, but Mr. Crump 
had already seen enough to satisfy his curi¬ 
osity, and devoted the whole of his attention 
to the coagulating poached egg. To his 

267 


GIRL OR BOY 

surprise he found that he was able to enjoy it. 
After all, he tried to tell himself, it ought 
to be possible to derive a considerable amount 
of private satisfaction from this aftermath 
of his predecessor’s career; it was, in fact, 
almost as good as reading his own obituary 
notice. 

Five minutes later he found himself in the 
street again. It was now something after 
ten o’clock: time to send off that wire to 
Millie. He composed it without difficulty in 
the nearest Post Office: “Home for good, 
but taking you long holiday abroad first, so be 
ready to start any moment.” He pictured with 
extreme gratification the state of excitement 
into which this startling pronouncement would 
fling her. Yes, he would bundle her out of 
the country at top speed, without giving her 
time to ask too many questions. That very 
night as ever was! The nine-twenty from 
Waterloo! It could be done, and he would 
do it. He braced himself to the effort. 

Insensibly his steps had led him towards 
Savoy Mansions. The realisation shocked 
him. He never wanted to see Savoy Mansions 
again; were he to find himself confronted once 
more by those luxurious portals he would feel 
that he was inspecting the precincts of his own 
grave. . . . Resolutely he turned back into the 
Strand and made his way to Charing Cross 
268 


RESURRECTION MORNING 

Station. He found a seat in the waiting- 
room. About half-past twelve would be the 
best time to arrive home; Millie would be 
ready for him by then. Millie! His thoughts 
browsed on Millie. She would, he knew, 
regard this trip abroad as their second honey¬ 
moon ; but how would he regard it? This was 
a question to which he could find no answer. 
Henceforth, so much of his life as he could 
give to any woman would be devoted to her, 
and to her alone. . . . His eyes wandered 
round the bare and dismal waiting-room. A 
girl was sitting in the far corner; a girl 
younger than Annette but with just that same 
flush of youth and beauty. He sighed, and 
gazed at her through a haze of recollection, 
reflectively, mournfully. All this was done 
with; he was now for ever to remain outside 
that charmed circle of youth and adventure in 
which, out of his time, he had for a brief span 
lived and moved. And suddenly the world 
became a very cold and dreary habitation for 
the soul of a man bereft of his playmate. The 
minutes sped by and still he did not move. 
When he came to life again nothing was left 
of youth and late romantic love in the breast 
of Mr. Crump but the kindly echo of farewell. 

Half an hour later he found himself, almost 
without taking thought, outside the door of 
his own home. There was no need to knock 

269 


GIRL OR BOY 

or find his key; Millie, he well knew, would 
not be far away. The door opened, and there 
she stood, her eyes alight with expectation. 

“ Millie!” 

“ David!” 

She called his name a second time, seeing a 
strange and troubled look on his face; and 
then she understood. 

“ Yes, David,” she said, highly delighted 
with herself. “ A present for you!” 

Just inside the door, beside the hall-stand, 
there stood a brand-new leather suit-case; it 
held him spell-bound. 

“ Why,” he murmured, not to his wife but 
to himself, “ it’s just like beginning life over 
again!” 

“ How do you mean, David?” Her voice 
was strained and anxious; it seemed to her 
that a shadow had suddenly crossed their 
path. 

“ Nothing,” he replied, taking her in his 
arms. “ Nothing at all!” 


270 


CHAPTER XX 
THE BOOT 

I T was not until ten o’clock of the following 
morning that Bennett managed to secure 
an interview with the manager of the Hotel 
Grande Riche; and he had certainly earned it. 
During the preceding twenty-four hours he 
had deprived himself of both food and sleep. 
From the moment of publication of the rumour 
concerning Marcus Faithful’s disappearance 
he had set out to obtain definite confirmation 
of it, and never for an instant had he relaxed 
his vigilance. That same morning he had paid 
several visits to Savoy Mansions, without re¬ 
sult. Much to his disgust he had been com¬ 
pelled to line up with a crowd of excited 
women, who were, as it happened, of the least 
fashionable sort in the Marcus Faithful fol¬ 
lowing. The Morning Star had not dared to do 
more than threaten to prick the bubble of his 
reputation; but the women who had descended 
upon Savoy Mansions in angry shoals had lost 
no time in exploding it. An unobserved in¬ 
truder in that feminine maelstrom, Bennett, 
though a hardened student of human nature, 
shuddered to hear the blasphemous execra¬ 
tions that fell from the lips of these delicate 
creatures. Every door in the Marcus Faithful 
suite was locked and double-locked; otherwise 
the whole place would have been sacked and 

271 


GIRL OR BOY 


looted. Some of the besiegers were loudly 
demanding their money back—a feature of 
the proceedings that caused Bennett a con¬ 
siderable amount of grim amusement. Once 
the breath of suspicion had touched the great 
Marcus Faithful, these women, after entrust¬ 
ing him with the innermost secrets of their 
soul, had turned to rend him. Their concep¬ 
tion of justice revolted Bennett, who, as a 
journalist, was always at pains to verify his 
facts, and he would gladly have avoided them 
altogether had he not remembered how, on a 
previous occasion, the prophet himself had 
appeared and miraculously stilled the storm. 
However, on this particular morning he was 
nowhere to be seen, and Bennett, on his final 
visit, found the main entrance to Savoy Man¬ 
sions barred and bolted. He had, too, the 
mortification of learning from an early edition 
of an evening paper that the police had been 
called in to clear the building. Bennett threw 
the paper into the gutter and hurried back to 
the hotel. 

He was already in possession of certain use¬ 
ful information. The hotel porter had assured 
him that not a single item of Mr. Marcus 
Faithful’s luggage had been removed from the 
hotel; the reception clerk had assured him 
that Mr. Marcus Faithful had not relinquished 
his suite; a page-boy had informed him that 
272 


THE BOOT 


there was nothing untoward in the appearance 
of the visitor when, at about his usual hour, 
he had left the hotel on the previous evening. 
Bennett therefore came to the conclusion that 
it would be worth while to wait, and waited; 
he took the further precaution of securing, by 
special arrangement, a bedroom which com¬ 
manded a view of the approach to the Marcus 
Faithful quarters. For twelve hours Bennett 
maintained an unceasing vigil, but nothing 
happened; the silence in that part of the hotel 
remained undisturbed. Periodically he went 
out into the corridor and listened for any 
noises that might have come from within those 
sumptuous apartments. Not a murmur 
throughout the watches of the night! If only 
the secretary-fellow, growled Bennett to him¬ 
self, had put in an appearance he might have 
had something to go on. It was not until the 
early hours of the morning that he gave up all 
hope, and lay down on his bed, with the door 
ajar. But sleep would not come; his nerves 
tingled at every slight mysterious noise that 
was born in the darkness of the night, and 
long before it was time to rise he was the most 
respondent creature breathing. His condi¬ 
tion, however, at least served to awaken the 
sympathetic interest of the hotel manager 
when at last Bennett gained admission to his 
private office. He stated the facts, and the 

273 


GIRL OR BOY 

manager consented to make certain inquiries. 
Five minutes later he returned to the room. 

“ Cleared off—both of them—I should 
say,” he remarked briefly, and handed to Ben¬ 
nett Crump’s last message to Still. “ But be 
careful what you say,” he added, already feel¬ 
ing a little dubious as to the wisdom of his 
action in saying anything whatsoever to this 
too eager young man. 

“ Account unpaid?” asked Bennett hope¬ 
fully. 

“ Only a trifling balance—which the value 
of the luggage will cover a hundred times 
over.” 

A very few seconds later Bennett found 
himself back in the street, in a not much hap¬ 
pier frame of mind. Certainly he had some¬ 
thing to go on; but not enough for his liking. 
It was too early yet to state confidently, with¬ 
out fear of contradiction, that Marcus Faith¬ 
ful had fled the country. After all, he had not 
stayed away from the hotel for more than two 
nights, and he might take it into his head to 
return. If he did there would be hell to pay 
at the Morning Star .... Bennett became very 
thoughtful. The message to Still, of course, 
appeared to be pretty conclusive; but he 
could not publish it; it left him no better off. 
Disconsolately he wandered along to have a 
final look at Savoy Mansions. The main 
274 


THE BOOT 

entrance was still shut, but he rang the bell, 
and continued to ring it, until the caretaker’s 
wife reluctantly opened the door. She only 
showed her face, and that at the moment was 
not of a very encouraging aspect. Moreover, 
Bennett was now acutely aware that he was 
under the careful observation of a police 
officer on the other side of the road. 

“ Good morning,” said Bennett to the face 
at the door. “I’m from the Morning Star” 

The woman looked as if she had never heard 
of it and sullenly waited for him to continue. 

“ You may know,” he went on ingratiat¬ 
ingly, “ that Mr. Marcus Faithful has dis¬ 
appeared—at least, he’s not to be found. 
Perhaps you can help me?”' 

“ There’s nothing here,” said the woman, 
already withdrawing her head, “ nothing at all. 
He burned everything he could lay hands on 
before he left—except the furniture, and that’s 
wanted for the rent.” And she slammed the 
door before Bennett could convey his thanks. 
The police officer, whom he next approached, 
proved to be highly uncommunicative; and, 
not altogether dissatisfied with the result of 
his researches, Bennett turned his back on the 
scene of Marcus Faithful’s exploits. 

It was at this point in the career of this 
rising young reporter that determined things 
to destiny held their way: as faithfully as if 

275 


GIRL OR BOY 


he had been deliberately following a human 
scent his own footsteps pursued the course 
taken by Mr. Crump on his resurrection morn¬ 
ing, and paused at the very spot where he had 
leaned over the Embankment railing and 
looked down into the grey swirling waters.. .. 
Had an unseen restraining hand been placed 
on his shoulders Bennett could not have more 
implicitly obeyed the summons of his fate: 
the providence of heaven had intervened on 
his behalf. His wandering footsteps paused, 
his eyes looked down into the grey swirling 
waters, at first listlessly, and then with a sud¬ 
den fiery intensity: lodged in the corner of the 
river-wall and the lowest step of the stone 
stairway over which the swell was breaking, 
was a boot—a boot of such shapeliness and 
distinction of craftsmanship that only one 
other boot in all the world could have been 
comparable to it, and that its fellow. Bennett 
would have recognised that boot among a mil¬ 
lion, and the last time he had seen it, it had 
graced the aristocratic foot of that prince 
among men, the great Marcus Faithful. With¬ 
in five seconds he had retrieved it from the 
perils of the deep. He took out his pocket- 
handkerchief and lovingly removed from its 
glistening surface the stains of its unkind im¬ 
mersion: not all the brine in the ocean would 
have sufficed to dull its pristine glamour; the 
276 


THE BOOT 

boot was unspoiled, inviolate. His heart was 
brimming over with joy and thankfulness: 
this find was the most precious ever made 
since the discovery of Pompeii and the lost 
tombs of Egypt; never, though he lived to be a 
hundred, would another such stroke of luck 
come his way. He examined the boot. It bore 
the name of a Paris bootmaker. This was 
almost good enough for Bennett, but not quite. 
Clutching the boot in one hand with a grip 
which Samson himself could not have shaken, 
he rushed for the nearest taxi and directed the 
driver to take him to St. John’s Wood. Here 
he burst into the studio of the most famous 
portrait painter of the day, Sir John Claver¬ 
ing, R.A., whose Academy portrait of Marcus 
Faithful had been sold to America for a record 
figure. Bennett breathlessly explained the 
situation to the astounded Academician. Sir 
John, who had faithfully painted that boot on 
immortal canvas, did not pause in his judg¬ 
ment: he proclaimed, immediately and em¬ 
phatically, the authenticity of the boot. ... A 
quarter of an hour later Bennett was back in 
Fleet Street, writing for dear life, with a pen 
that was inspired by all the devils and arch¬ 
angels in heaven and out of it. 

The following day the Morning Star pro¬ 
duced a twenty-four page paper, thereby con¬ 
suming, as it was careful to point out, enough 

277 


GIRL OR BOY 

news-print to wrap the entire earth in a gar¬ 
ment. One-third of the space was devoted to 
a full chronicle of the exploits of the greatest 
charlatan of modern times. Across six columns 
ran the heading, in type two inches deep, 
“HOW MARCUS FAITHFUL DIED,” 
and underneath, a size down, “ Suicide from 
Remorse.” A moving pen-picture was drawn 
of the shivering, haunted wretch poised on 
the Embankment railings, inhaling a last deep 
breath before flinging himself to a watery 
doom. ... Sir John Clavering’s speaking like¬ 
ness of this incomparable criminal was repro¬ 
duced within the uttermost limits that the 
margins allowed, and an expert criminologist, 
whose reputation Scotland Yard itself had 
never dared to question, discussed the portrait 
over several columns and by irrefutable argu¬ 
ment demonstrated the signs of inherent crimi¬ 
nality and debauchery revealed in the face of 
the deceased. Dark hints were thrown out as 
to the precise nature of Marcus Faithful’s re¬ 
lations with the women who consulted him; 
but the Morning Star maintained an unusual 
reticence on this point, because, as the Edi¬ 
torial stated, the paper held out its sympathy 
towards those thousands upon thousands of 
women who, in all innocence of purpose, had 
fallen into the monstrous clutches of this 
master mountebank. A publicist prelate 
278 


THE BOOT 

wrote at length under the title, “ What are 
our women coming to?”—this title being 
supplied by a sub-editor in preference to the 
prelate’s own choice—“ A Distressing Sign of 
the Times.” One whole page was devoted 
to a brief summary of the characters and 
exploits of the major master criminals through¬ 
out the ages, with an historical introduction 
contributed by an Oxford Professor. Inter¬ 
views with a few of the leading women of the 
day—those few whose curiosity had resisted 
the blandishments of Marcus Faithful’s 
appeals and to whom Savoy Mansions was 
merely a name and not an experience—pro¬ 
vided some healthy reading for the masses. 
The greatest dramatist of the day wired to the 
paper: “ I am distressed to witness the trend 
of modern morals,” and at once retired to his 
study to compose a play on such a promising 
theme. An enterprising publishing firm 
announced in the advertisement columns that 
they proposed to issue, within the next month, 
a handsome octavo volume giving a full and 
authentic account of these alluring events, 
under the title of “ The Wizard of Savoy 
Mansions: The Story of the Greatest Hoax 
in History.” The reverend Head of a famous 
Public School, on being asked for his com¬ 
ments over the telephone, was reported to 
have murmured brokenly into the receiver, 

279 


GIRL OR BOY 

“ God help our race.” The Prime Minister, 
being asked in his pyjamas at one o’clock in 
the morning whether he proposed to take 
action, was stated to have sworn volubly that 
the answer was positively in the negative. 
True to its character as a national organ of 
public opinion, the Morning Star promised its 
cultured following further astounding revela¬ 
tions in the next day’s issue. 

Mr. David Crump was restlessly pacing up 
and down the hotel terrace overlooking the 
lake. The air was pleasantly chill after the 
heat of the day, but it did not serve to cool 
Mr. Crump’s troubled brow. That night life 
was terrible and the world chaos. . . . Mrs. 
Crump proposed to have her baby here, in 
Switzerland of all places, at least a fortnight 
before her time. He ran his fingers through 
his hair and groaned, in body and in spirit. 
Finally, he flung himself into a green wicker 
chair standing beside the ornate lamps that 
illuminated the terrace. His head fell forward 
and he clutched it tightly between both hands. 
If only he could have got her back to England 
before this blow had fallen! This shattering 
experience, coming upon him in a strange 
land, was almost beyond human endurance. 
Could he have awakened to find it all a dream 
and himself safely within the drab and dusty 
280 


THE BOOT 

precincts of Maze Hill Road, Greenwich, he 
would gladly have consented to remain there 
for the rest of his days. He stared stupidly, 
vacantly, at the long chain of mountains of 
Valais and Savoy and tried to persuade him¬ 
self that they weren’t real, that he was dream¬ 
ing. . . . Impossible! They were real, and he 
was their prisoner. He tried to pull himself 
together and sat upright in his chair. His 
eyes wandered from the slow-moving light on 
the gleaming level of the lake to the chain of 
lamps that lined its shores and on to the stars 
of heaven; and every point of light was a 
stab to his soul: he yearned for a great dark¬ 
ness to envelop all. . . . Because he was afraid 
to face this crisis, seeking vainly a way of 
escape, a host of memories afflicted his brain. 
During these past few months only in mo¬ 
ments of weakness had his thoughts turned to 
Annette, but now every little detail of their 
brief history rose up to haunt him. First mem¬ 
ories and last, all of them he lived over again; 
but the one that hurt most was something less 
than a memory; it was, rather, a gap in mem¬ 
ory: she had gone without a word of farewell. 
He thought of the morning of his last visit to 
Great Russell Street. Curious ... it had 
not occurred to him to ask whether she had 
left a note for him. For him? For whom? 
The man Annette had known, the man to 

281 


GIRL OR BOY 

whom she would have addressed that word of 
farewell, was dead! He extracted a certain 
grim amusement from the thought of what 
Mrs. Meek would have said had he announced 
to her, “ I am the great Marcus Faithful. Did 
Miss Annette leave a message for me?” He 
did not suppose that he would ever see her 
again; and if they did happen to meet she 
would not be able to recognise him. . . . And 
thus it was that, in this belief, heaven was 
kind to Mr. Crump; for he was never to dis¬ 
cover, what that note would have told him, 
that Annette was the one person in the world 
who held the secret of his identity. 

“ Wake up!” 

The little man in the green wicker chair 
felt his shoulders roughly shaken. He was 
perfectly wide awake, although the attitude of 
dull dejection into which he had sunk gave 
every appearance of sleep. 

“ Good news,” said the doctor, an English¬ 
man: Mr. Crump would never have retained 
his sanity had he been compelled to call in a 
native practitioner. “Wonderful news!” 

Mr. Crump rose unsteadily from his chair 
and shook his knees free of the crumpled 
white flannel trousers he had put on that 
morning and quite forgotten to change. 

“ Yes?” he asked with trembling lips. 

“ Two fine bouncing boys!” 


282 


THE BOOT 

His mind went blank. He tried hard to 
decide what to say, what to do. 

“ Fancy, after all these years!” he mut¬ 
tered feebly. “ Do you think-” He 

broke off, being suddenly bereft of both 
speech and thought. 

“ You'd like to see her?” replied the 
doctor, who, in these matters, proceeded by 
routine. “ Well, just for half a minute. 
Come along.” 

The doctor took him by the arm and 
pushed him towards the terrace doors, led him 
through a maze of corridors, and brought him 
to a halt outside a tall white door. 

“ Just half a minute,” he whispered. “ I'll 
wait for you.” 

Mr. Crump found himself in a large white 
room, saw through a haze the white erect 
figure of a nurse, a wide white bed, and last, 
the white and lustreless face of his own wife. 
Shaking in every limb he stepped towards her, 
bent over her, and touched her dry lips with 
his own. 

“ David!” he heard her gasp with a tiny 
breath. 

“ After all these years!” At the moment 
he was incapable of doing more than repeat 
himself. On either side of her . . . but now 
there were tears in his eyes and he could not 
see. He heard a muffled cry, and shivered: 

283 


GIRL OR BOY 

whether from fear or delight he did not 
know. 

“ David!” He bent down to her again. 

“ I must tell you now,” she whispered in a 
voice so low that through her broken words 
he could hear the plashing of the waters of the 
lake on the shore beneath the bedroom win¬ 
dow. “ It was that man. You know who I 
mean. I didn’t like to tell you before because 
it might not have been true what he said. I 
wish I could tell him, now! David, isn’t it too 
wonderful?” 

Tears of joy stood in her eyes, and those in 
his own as suddenly disappeared. He kissed 
her again, to hide his confusion, mumbled a 
few words which made no sort of sense, and 
crept out of the room with a face as white as 
anything in it. The doctor was waiting for 
him on the other side of the door and gave 
him a cursory glance of examination. 

“ Lucky man! ” he remarked—still proceed¬ 
ing by routine—“ but you must pull yourself 
together. I’ll take you back to the terrace; 
the air will do you good.” 

The doctor, by main force of persuasion, 
got him back to his seat on the terrace and 
looked him over with a professional eye. Mr. 
Crump might have been on the point of death 
for all the interest he displayed in life. 

“ Good God,” at last exclaimed the doctor, 


284 


THE BOOT 

“ no one to look at you would think that you 
are—or ought to be—the happiest man alive! ” 

Mr. Crump looked up at him meekly, 
appealingly. 

“ Sorry, doctor,” he murmured, “ but these 
things come rather as a blow, sometimes—the 
way they come, I mean.” 

The doctor, not being in a position to appre¬ 
ciate the pathos behind this simple statement, 
snorted violently, and prepared to go. 

“ Oh, very well,” he said, giving up this 
peculiar sort of father as a bad job. “ Collect 
your thoughts a bit and you’ll soon feel better. 
Here, have a look at this. I shan’t have time 
to read it myself. See you to-morrow. Good¬ 
night.” 

Mr. Crump heard his feet clatter on the 
stone steps that led to the street below, and 
then a vast unbroken silence wrapped him 
round. There were fewer lights now on the 
slopes that ran down to the shores of the lake, 
and the lake itself was still and deserted, 
though there seemed to lurk within the blue 
deeps of its bosom a monstrous, inhuman, 
hungry life. . . . Mr. Crump shivered; he 
no longer liked the lake; its cold inhumanity 
struck terror to his heart. He looked away, 
looked up. The stars were shining brighter 
than ever. They too were placid, but not 
unkind: it may have been that he was more 

285 


GIRL OR BOY 

used to them. . . . But he would go in and 
find somewhere to lay his head. He would 
feel better in the morning. A father of two 
boys! Wonderful! But he was too tired 
now to realise the full significance of this 
event in his life. He half-rose in his chair— 
and something rustled in his lap. It was the 
paper that the doctor had left with him. 

Not since he had left England had he so 
much as glanced at an English newspaper; 
he wanted to break with that immediate past; 
he never wanted to see or hear another refer¬ 
ence to it; he wanted to settle down happily 
and comfortably with Millie in their new home 
on the Heath. He had not been able to kill 
all thought of that tremendous episode, but he 
had kept on trying, and he shunned the idea 
of coming up against the affair once more in 
cold print. . . . But it would have blown over 
by now: a thousand scandals must have come 
to light since his own was last raised. He 
stole a glance at the paper in his lap. The 
Morning Star! It was like a breath from 
home; it warmed the blood in his veins; it 
reminded him of the good days, the early days, 
perhaps the best days of all when he had first 
worked on the paper and he and Millie were 
starting out on life together! Marvellous! 
He felt better already! He grasped the paper 
in both hands and opened it at the main news 
286 


THE BOOT 


page. Had the light in the lamp overhead 
exploded and expired a blanker look could not 
have crossed his face. In the centre of the 
page appeared a reproduction of Sir John 
Clavering’s portrait of himself, with a laurel 
border two inches wide. Multitudes of head¬ 
lines crossed the page. “ England’s In¬ 
gratitude to One of Her Greatest Sons. 
Astounding Revelations by the Regis¬ 
trar-General’s Return of Births. Tragic 
Justification of Marcus Faithful’s 
Teachings. Nine to One Preponderance 
of Male Births in U.K. for Last Quarter. 
The Editorial was headed, with simple dig¬ 
nity, “ The Boot.” The final paragraph ran: 

“ This great man who, after years of exile 
spent in the unremitting pursuit of his epoch- 
making discovery, returned to our shores to 
give ungrudgingly of the fruits of his labours, 
died unhonoured and unsung. We now know 
that he chose to die by his own hand because 
of the intolerable strain and anxiety to which 
he was subjected during the closing month of 
his life when, throughout the length and 
breadth of our land, unnumbered thousands 
of tender hearts had put their whole faith and 
trust in him. But in death he stands vindi¬ 
cated. . . . And while this generation lives 
his memorial will blossom in the hearts of its 
women and in the prodigality of their sons. 

287 


GIRL OR BOY 

But we believe that we echo a nation-wide 
desire when we demand that due honour and 
reverence shall be paid to the one tangible 
relic that escaped his watery grave. We refer 
to this great man’s Boot. For this great 
mercy let us be duly thankful. Let the nation, 
we say, forthwith require that this Boot be 
interred with all proper solemnity and that a 
monument be erected over it with the inscrip¬ 
tion: Here Lies the Boot of One Who . . 

Mr. Crump lifted his bewildered eyes from 
the paper. A beatific light flooded his coun¬ 
tenance. 

“ It must have been faith!” he murmured; 
and all the stars of heaven, between the drift¬ 
ing clouds, winked at him, gaily, knowingly. 


THE END 












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